War of the Heart
by Historyman101
Summary: Second installment of the Historical Eureka Seven Saga. 1943: Renton and Eureka return to America after barely escaping the Soviet Union, and try to start their lives over. However, while they come to terms with their feelings for each other, an old enemy from their past comes searching for them, eager for revenge. Reviews much appreciated. Pairings: RentonxEureka HollandxTalho
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Well, here we are again. You're all wondering no doubt why I'm writing a brand new story instead of working on the old ones in this series. Well, fact is I've been busy editing and rewriting. And in that time, a lot has changed and been added. As the entire saga stands right now, it'd be downright impossible for me to include all this new content and plot into an old story such as _Fight for the One You Love_ that pretty much has a plot all its own. So I figured to myself it only makes sense to include a new story in the historical saga. Expect a new plot, new characters, new everything. Almost everything you will see in this story has been worked on from scratch and was not part of the original trilogy. So now, what was once a three-part story is now four parts. And I say all the better.

Enjoy and be sure to leave a review.

* * *

**Disclaimer: I don't own Eureka Seven. I only own the story here.**

_As the last Great War rages on, a boy and a girl struggle to forge a new future together. However, a spirit from their youths will come back to haunt them, and remind them how the past does not easily forget._

_Renton Thurston and Eureka Novikova have returned home after a harrowing escape from Stalingrad. With the worst seemingly over, they now must confront their feelings for each other if they are to live together as they had hoped. But as they fight their own internal battles, an old enemy lurks in the shadows, waiting to strike. It is a story of love, heartbreak, and revenge._

_The second installment of the Eureka Seven historical fanfiction series..._

**War of the Heart**

**By Jordan Harms**

**Chapter One**

**January 10****th****, 1943**

**Stalingrad, USSR**

The air was bitingly cold as the young lieutenant trudged on through the snow towards the regiment headquarters. He was alone, unusually; Karataev and Alekseev had been called on patrol duty, and the new regiment commander requested him to come alone. He didn't quarrel with it. Instead, he found it as an opportunity. Perhaps this commander might provide him more opportunity for advancement, whereas his company leader always held him in suspicion for his self-interested ambitions.

He was still seething in anger and frustration from his failure to stop the American boy from crossing the border and taking the Novikov girl with him. He searched throughout his mind, scheming for a way to get back at him and settle their rivalry at last. The only way he could see it was travelling across the oceans to find him, but such a project was daunting, and implausible at this point. There was still an enemy to fight. There was still a siege to end. There was still a war to be won. And until Germany was defeated, he would have to put his rivalry to one side. And still, it was a prospect he was unsatisfied with.

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he reached the regiment headquarters, a two story grey office building with a caved in roof. Even high ranking officers could not afford much better accommodations. It was a sign of the times to him. The innocent and carefree days of childhood had long since faded away, leaving only the stone cold reality of a cruel, unforgiving world. It was this reality he accepted wholeheartedly, as he felt that he would only retard himself from further advancement by looking away. In fact, he gladly embraced this, seeing it as the new normal for the years that were to come. He approached the entrance of the building and was surprised to find his company commander, a Ukrainian man named Pavlenko.

"Comrade Lieutenant Chertov!" Pavlenko greeted with a saccharine smile. "You made it!"

"Comrade Captain," Chertov returned, sharply saluting his superior. "I hope I am not late."

"Not at all. The Lieutenant Colonel is expecting you. You will find him on the first floor in the reception room."

"Thank you, sir."

Chertov quickly slipped past Pavlenko and entered the building to be greeted by two warrant officers in full winter dress: dark brown coats and matching trousers, black felt boots and fur hats. They both greeted him with a look of expectancy.

"The Lieutenant Colonel is in here, comrade Lieutenant."

The both opened up a set of double doors that led him right into the reception room, where he found the man he was expected to meet.

He was young, looking to be in his late twenties, with shoulder-length grey hair tied back in a short ponytail. His sharp blue eyes were glassy, obviously from spending many a day and night looking over maps, planning attack and defense. Across the wooden table he stood before were schematics of various landmarks throughout the city, ones of strategic importance no doubt. He wore a dark khaki uniform with blue riding pants tucked into tall black boots, covered over by his brown cloak. The dimly lit room hid his face, but Chertov could swear he had seen it somewhere before, like a ghost from the past.

The officer looked up and greeted Chertov with a cold smile.

"Ah, Junior Lieutenant Ilya Chertov! Finally we meet."

Chertov saluted him, just as he did with Pavlenko.

"It is good to meet you too, comrade Lieutenant Colonel," he said unaffectedly. "You wished to see me?"

"Yes, indeed, comrade Lieutenant. Please, sit down."

Chertov did as he was told and pulled up a chair, while the lieutenant colonel found a bottle of liquor on a sideboard and some small shot glasses.

"Would you care for some vodka, comrade Lieutenant?"

"Not while I am on duty, sir."

"Good lad," his superior laughed, as if expecting such an answer. "I like that sense of professionalism! Captain Pavlenko always spoke highly of you in that regard…"

He returned to the table, and faced him with a look in his eyes as strong as steel.

"…as well as your adeptness in battle. He told me you cleared out all three German machine gun bunkers in the assault on Mamaev Kurgan only yesterday."

Chertov cleared his throat.

"I might have done so, sir, if the captain says, but to be honest, the whole assault is a blur to me. I hardly remember anything about it at all."

"That's something I hear often from soldiers after days of fierce combat. Many a man do I know who barely escaped death with only fragments of memories of their experiences…"

Chertov titled his head in confusion at his superior's musing.

"Sir?"

The lieutenant colonel chuckled, as if the laughter would will his words away.

"Don't mind it, comrade Lieutenant. Rambling is one of my persistent habits."

"I hardly mind it, sir. Only I am still left wondering why you called me here."

"Ah, yes, that," the officer said, snapping his fingers in revelation. "Tell me, comrade, what is your opinion of this war?"

"This war, sir?"

"No, the last war. Yes, this war, man!"

Chertov contemplated the question a moment. He never truly thought much about the reasons why he was fighting, outside of a duty to save his country from certain oppression by the forces of fascism. The lieutenant colonel, however, evidently wanted something much deeper and personal than the stock reason for fighting that every ordinary soldier gives when asked that question.

"In my opinion, comrade Lieutenant Colonel, this war began as treachery against us by a nation that, in retrospect, could never be trusted. If I had the power to go back and change the past, I would much rather have us and the Germans at each other's throats than to have a treaty between us that in the end would only be broken. This war is merely a matter of us misplacing our trust in a madman who only sought to dupe and dominate us. And it is for that reason, sir, that I will fight the enemy that stands before us with my life, for as long as I have air in my lungs."

The colonel smiled, appearing satisfied with his answer. A small shade of light was cast on him and revealed his hollow face, cheekbones evident in his visage.

"You are very perceptive, comrade Lieutenant. Perhaps, then, you might be able to agree with me on my view of this Great Patriotic War." (A/N: Great Patriotic War: The colloquial term used in the Soviet Union to refer to World War II.)

He slowly circled the table, heading in Chertov's direction as he spun off his reflections on this, the most defining event of their young lives. Clearly, this officer had great and large ambitions, almost to the point of possessing delusions of grandeur.

"This war is unlike any humanity has ever seen. It has proven to be more destructive, more costly, and larger than anything we could have imagined. But at the same time, this war will also define us. Whatever the outcome may be, the victors of this conflict will not only be responsible for the defeat of fascism, but will also have the power to change this world forever. And I am sure you will agree with me, comrade Lieutenant, that _nothing_ must stop us from taking control of that destiny."

By now, the lieutenant colonel was towering over Chertov, and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel a bit intimidated. Nonetheless he sat up perfectly, listening to the colonel's high aspirations for his nation.

"You certainly think big, sir," Chertov remarked plainly, as if this kind of speech was normal. "And I cannot disagree with your opinion, as I certainly think this war is important as well."

"You know, I like you, comrade Lieutenant," the lieutenant colonel said with a smile. "And it is because of your skill and ability that I have selected you for a special mission."

Chertov raised an eyebrow.

"What kind of special mission?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot release the details to you at this time," the officer said, spinning on his heel and walking back to his side of the table.

Chertov stood up as the short ponytail of grey hair flowed behind him. He was not about to stand for his superior holding out on him. Why on earth was he called out specifically if he would not even give the reason why? It was too frustrating, too aggravating for him!

"Forgive me, comrade Lieutenant Colonel, but _you _are the one who wished to see me and speak with me. If the purpose of our meeting is for you to assign me a special mission, don't I at least have a right to know what the mission entails? How can I hope to serve you if you do not give me any hint of what it is you are planning?!"

The lieutenant colonel stopped, his cloaked back facing him. He paused, as if the young lieutenant said too much and now a decommission was in order. Chertov gulped hard, fearing that he had just shot his entire career out the window with one badly timed flare-up. Now he feared the worst.

"…and Captain Pavlenko also told me about your temper…" the lieutenant colonel cautioned. "Understand: I am giving you an opportunity, comrade Lieutenant. It would be unwise for you to so carelessly waste it."

"Apologies, sir. But may I at least know what I have to do for this mission?"

The officer faced him and leaned over the table. His face was lit up, and Chertov finally saw exactly who this lieutenant colonel was. He _knew_ he recognized the face somewhere before, but just didn't recall. With the narrowing of his ice blue eyes and the twisting of his mouth into a grin, Chertov immediately remembered this man from his past. A man he never expected to see.

"I'll let you even your score with Renton Thurston, Ilya Pavlovich. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"It does, Dewey Petrovich," Chertov replied, a smile slipping across his face. "I am surprised you still remember the American after all these years."

"I remember many things, Ilya Pavlovich, especially you and your rivalry with him. I promise if you stick with me, you will have your revenge."

The colonel outstretched his hand.

"Tochna?" (A/N: Clear?)

Chertov's smile only widened, and he reached out his hand to him, finding a new ally. This time, it was an ally who knew and understood him, his qualms, and his deepest feelings of enmity for the American boy that was always his ire. In an instant, he felt his prospects for revenge soar with a shaking of the hand. The deal was done, and a new dangerous alliance had been formed.

"Tak tochna, sir." (A/N: Perfectly clear, sir.)

»»»»»

**Bellforest, California, USA**

The air was quiet and deathly still with a slight foggy haze hanging over the small valley town. Their ship had arrived late at night, and so all the windows of the town were dark. No one knew they were arriving from such a long and arduous journey. All the townspeople were dreaming sweet dreams without care as the dual headlights of the taxi arrived at the little bungalow on the rise, the humble abode where he made his home.

"Here we are, kid, 1225 Bay Street," said the gruff cabby.

The teenage boy with oak brown hair promptly paid his fare to the cabby and nudged the sleeping brown-haired girl next to him.

"Eureka, we're here. We're home."

She moaned and stirred, rubbing her eyes slowly in an attempt to regain some semblance of alertness after travelling tirelessly for many a week risking life and all. She turned a weary but strong grey eye to him and nodded.

"Let's go home, Renton."

Renton thanked the cabby for taking them this far and both exited the taxi taking with them their baggage as they headed up the hill to the front door of his home. Eureka was taken rather aback at how small and unfitting it seemed for a boy like Renton. She was certain his home would be much bigger, maybe a bit luxurious. She wanted to ask him why, but she saw in his eyes that all he sought for was to finally set foot in home again where he could not be questioned or troubled by such pressing matters as attack and defense and escape.

The door was opened, two pairs of feet stepped in, and the journey was concluded with a quiet shutting of the door.

He set his bag down on the kitchen bar and allowed her to walk around the house for a moment, getting acquainted with her new home. In the meantime he took in everything that had transpired in a mere month as he unpacked his briefcase. His exploits seemed better placed in an adventure novel than in real life, and yet it was all too real. He had traveled through fire and ice to find her. He witnessed and partook in unspeakable horror to bring her back. He fought against friend and foe to protect her. It had all paid off, and she was safe and sound with him. All else that followed would be rewards from God for risking life and limb to save a fellow human being. What would come next though?

Her adjusting to a new life, certainly.

Him showing her the ways of his small town.

…Love?

At that thought, he no longer heard the pacing about of dainty feet on the carpeted floor and went off in search of his friend. Not surprisingly, he found her in the bedroom, lying sprawled out in utter exhaustion from the weeks of travelling and being on the run from the Soviet authorities. She was turned on her side away from him, but Renton's heavy footsteps had her turned over. With much effort in her tired limbs, she sat up in the bed, greeting him with a weary smile. It was as if the only way she could convey in her gratitude and indebtedness to him was with that simple expression.

"You must be extremely tired after everything," he said, taking a seat beside her.

"Yes," she said after a brief pause.

Her senses were lagging and disorientation increasing with each passing moment. Being in a country where the time difference was equal to more than half a day, it came as no surprise to him, as he was quite on the verge of falling dead on the spot with her. However he felt a need to make a promise to her before she inevitably slipped off to a world of happier places one only dreamed about.

"Eureka?" he started.

"Hmm?" she mumbled.

"I promise from now on that you won't have to feel any more pain like what you felt before. I'll keep you safe from all the horror. Never again will you—"

His heartfelt vows were cut short by her gentle sigh and he turned to find she had drifted off to sleep leaning on his shoulder. He smiled, seeing her tranquil and peaceful countenance all the more illuminated by her semiconscious soporific state. Looking at her while sleeping was looking into the face of an angel. And that was exactly what she was through all of this. An angel who had been misplaced in a cruel and inhuman mortal world. The innocent who was always fated to be trodden upon by the conniving and callous. She was his angel, and he would be her protector, the sole mortal defender of what was humane and right in an age that had forgotten such words. He whispered quiet words that communicated as much as he laid her down on his bed.

"Sweet dreams, my friend. All will be well."

»»»»»

The night seemed to pass quickly as he collapsed onto his sofa to sleep, leaving her to the bed. He was willing to give it up for her. Speaking of the new member of his household, she was still fast asleep by the time he got up which was around two in the afternoon. He was certain that it felt like later to him, but he brushed it off as the remnants of jet lag. In the meantime, he had to nip down to the pharmacy and see that all was well with the employees and to the local market to pick up some much needed food rations; the icebox was close to being bare upon his return.

He left her a note should she wake up before he returned, though given her nature he severely doubted such a possibility.

_Eurekasha,_

_I've gone out to get rations and take care of a few things in town. There is some food left in the icebox that should be easy to prepare. I will be back in an hour or so. Please make yourself at home; this is your home as well as mine from now on, after all._

_Rentoshka_

With that he quickly took to the shower and grabbed a fresh set of clothes out of the closet (all with Eureka undisturbed, dead asleep as she was), and started out the door when he noticed something on the coat rack that sat in the short hallway to the door. A new coat, one he had never seen before.

It was long and grey, with the collar turned up. There was a cloth belt around the waist of the coat and a single row of buttons. There was a note latched on it with a safety pin. He pulled it off and immediately recognized his brother's awkward handwriting, smiling and laughing to himself.

_To my brave little brother,_

_A new coat for you to wear when your heart needs warming. About time you had one of your own, since mine is about worn out and probably riddled with bullet holes now. Ha ha. _

_Merry belated Christmas,_

_Willie_

He laughed and thought it nice to actually not borrow his brother's coat for a change, and took the coat of the rack. It fitted him perfectly, and suited him very well, giving him a dapper and dignified look. He smiled contently, feeling comfortable in this new garment no longer having to be content with borrowing his brother's worn out one. Satisfied with his gift, he exited his house and quietly trotted in the direction of downtown.

Even though he was home, he still felt lost and discontent as was evident by his posture. He kept his face hidden from all by turning up his collar. He did not wish to be singled out for praise and fanfare merely a day upon his return; he was more content to adjust in silence and not receive the pomp and bluster of a hero's welcome; such appraisal was not merited in his mind.

The streets were silent as were the houses that stood against the stormy grey sky. Smoke silently rose from the chimneys that topped the houses adding to the already foggy atmosphere, hanging over the town like a blanket. For a moment he was back in Stalingrad, the houses standing ruins, the smoke from towering infernos, and the cloudy sky birthing snow to the mother earth. And yet there was not a sound, not a gunshot, not even the distant cry of a wounded man. There was only the breaking and damning silence that served to torment him.

Why? Why was it when he had just escaped Hell that it seemed to follow him back? He had accomplished everything he set out to achieve. He completed his objectives. He brought her back safe and sound. It was all over now, he thought. So why? Why is it that even the sight of his own home town served to bring him grief and woe?

His musings were cut short by a lowly beggar asking for change on the sidewalk.

"Pardon me, young man, but do you have any money for a man down on his luck?"

Not turning to him, he fished his wallet out of his trench coat pocket and scavenged some excess change he needed to get rid of and offered it, cupped in his hand.

"This is all I have," he said, somehow feeling the need to get away. "I'm sorry I can't give more."

"That's good enough for me, my boy. God's blessings on you."

"And to you, old man."

He stuffed the wallet back into his pocket and rolled on.

Before he knew it he had entered the downtown district, which was very quiet on this gloomy day. Small silent stores displayed their mute wares to the few uninterested passersby. There weren't even any old men playing chess outside the coffee house in the square. If he did not know any better he would have supposed the entire town was deserted. He looked to the left and spotted the pharmacy where he worked. For all intents and purposes, he did not have to go to work today. As far as the rest of the world knew, he had not come back yet, and he intended to have it that way before the new school semester inevitably began. He was not in the mood to be confronted by anyone today.

He pushed the door open, which rang the bell perched on top. None said a word and neither did he as he pushed on through the aisles searching for his nondescript things of necessity. He occasionally would spot a familiar face in the store as he searched the shelves, but went on unnoticed much to his silent rejoice. This was not the day he wished to be welcomed back. As far as the store was concerned, he was simply a ghost: quiet, invisible, and fleeting as all spirits were. That is at least until he came to the cashier.

"That's five dollars, forty-six cents, sir."

He silently reached for the money and handed it to the cashier, hoping that he would stay unrecognized until he got back to his home as he outstretched his hand for the change.

"Here's your change, mister. Have a nice day."

"You too."

He exited as quickly as he came and immediately saw the person he did not want to see.

It was a girl of 16 years with golden blonde hair, eyes of lapis lazuli and blood red lips. She had a mature figure for a teenager, her graceful womanly curves evident through her heavy clothing. She wore a royal blue dress with a hooded cyan cloak strung over her shoulders to shield her from the cold. Her long slender legs were protected by leggings and stylish black boots to walk through the damp streets. On her delicate hands were white flannel gloves.

He cursed to himself, thinking that God must be against him on this day. As much of a friend she was, he was not in any mood to talk to anyone today; he only sought home where he could not be questioned and could be allowed to readjust as he saw fit. I suppose it can't be helped, he thought, and tried to slip past her without her taking any notice.

But his plans were to no avail.

"Renton Thurston!" she said, in great surprise to see her friend she thought for certain lost.

"…Jane Hart…" he returned, secretly wishing for a way out and back home.

"When did you get home? I was so worried that you would not make it back."

"My ship arrived very late last night, so I was in no position to greet you or anyone else."

"Oh, I see," she responded quietly. "Did your travels go well?"

"As well as traveling to a battlefield can be expected to go," he said, hinting at some darker events that he would rather forget.

"Yes I suppose that would be true," she responded with a sincere smile. "Did you accomplish what you wanted while you were away?"

"Yes, thank God," he said, still somewhat unbelieving on just what had transpired in the month of separation between them. "By some grace of God, I managed to find her. I found her in the midst of smoke and fire and rubble. I found her."

"That's good, Renton. It is not often that you find a person unlike yourself who is willing to sacrifice everything for a friend."

"I simply did what I was always taught to do, Jane. To never give up on a friend no matter the circumstances. I'm just still amazed I managed to find her alive. Even I doubted at times that she was still with us."

"Were you able to find her a place to stay and call home after you had found her?"

He sighed, fearing the reaction from her if he told her the truth of what he needed to do for her to keep her safe.

"Well…"

"Yes, Renton?" she responded with the curiosity in her eyes and voice now evidently showing. "Where is she at, now?"

"With me, for the time being," he replied, with great reluctance in his voice to tell her the truth.

There was a slight pause and suddenly her whole body tightened with that news. It was one thing to go out and assist a girl he knew from long ago, but to bring her home? To live under his roof? Jane looked down at her boots, visibly displeased with this news.

"I see…" she said with an ounce of mistrust. "I wasn't expecting that."

"There's no other place for her to go in this country, Jane. What would you have me do?"

"Nothing," she said, shrugging her shoulders dispassionately. "In any case, you have to provide her with shelter until her home is fit to return to, do you not?"

"With how Stalingrad is now," he said with grave heralding in his voice, "I suspect that will be a long time in coming."

"In any case, Renton, what you did was a very brave thing. One that should be rewarded."

"Strange you mention rewards," he laughed wistfully, seemingly brooding over something she could not discern. "I was decorated a couple times while I was in Stalingrad…"

"Oh, I see," she said as she smiled cheerfully and her heart filled with joy. "It seems you have been rewarded for your good deeds already."

He laughed, knowing that Jane could not comprehend what the price of those "rewards" had been for him…and for her.

"I just wish that it didn't come with so heavy a burden to bear."

"Why a burden, Renton? I feel no reward should have to be filled with a feeling like that. It would make the whole thing…well…worthless to me."

"Let me tell you a story, then," he said with a grave tone of seriousness as if the tale was one of tragedy. "While I was in Stalingrad, I had to fight alongside the Red Army. Once during the battle one soldier was wounded by the Germans. I had to pull him back to safety under enemy fire, and they rewarded me with a medal. But the so-called glory does not stop there…"

He shook his head as if he had greatly wronged someone who was the closest person to his heart. He breathed heavily, as if trying to release all the guilt he had pent up inside him. But guilt is not something that flies by like a feather in the wind.

"After my stint in the Red Army, I was given a title by the Soviet commander…I was given the title 'Hero of the Soviet Union.'"

He laughed at the cruel irony of his tainted laurels.

"They call me a hero for killing in cold blood! They call me, a murderer, a sinner, a hero!"

"But you did what you had to for the right reasons, Renton!" Jane responded with a tone of seriousness in her voice. "How can doing something that saves the lives of other countless innocent people be such a burden?"

He looked at her, with bright tears standing in his eyes, feeling ashamed to look his innocent friend, untouched by the horrors of war, in the face.

"Noble reason or not, I still committed a sin, Jane. Do you know how that feels? Do you know what it feels like to go against God's teachings to protect what's important to you? It's worst feeling in the world!"

He covered one piercing green eye with his hand in grief and leaned another on the wall of an alley, ashamed to face her.

"Well I see it differently, Renton," she responded sternly. "In my eyes you do the right thing to save and protect the ones you care about or you let them die. As far as I care to see it, you chose the first option."

He turned, one bright but melancholy green eye looking over his shoulder to her, her blue eyes taking their own sharpness and her face solidifying in determination. He trembled as a small beam of light emerged through the clouded sky to illuminate his face, even the battle scars that bore as evidence to the sacrifices he had to make to protect what he held dear.

"Jane…"

"Face it, Renton. You know what I have just told you is true."

He smiled, albeit a wistful and longing smile that seemed to communicate yearning for better days when one did not have to think of sin and burden and contemptible means to noble ends. He knew she was right, but it still did not take away the shame he felt. He turned his body to her and leaned against the wall, sliding down with a great sigh until he hit the cold pavement, looking to her as a leper would look to a holy man to cure him of his illness.

"Then answer me one question, Jane."

"What is it?" she said, her eyes cold as ice.

"Why do I still feel guilt? Throughout the battle, I continued to tell myself that it was all for a good cause. I kept telling myself that I was doing all of this for Eureka's sake. That I was helping to end this battle decisively and bring peace back. But now, even after everything is over, I still feel guilty about taking the lives of so many. I still feel shame to look anyone in the face for doing what I did. Why is it, Jane? Why do I feel pain when I know I shouldn't? Why do I continue to feel guilt when I know that I did the right thing? Why is it, Jane?"

"I wish I knew that answer to that, Renton. The only reason I can think of is because even though they were doing evil things, maybe even they had families to return to."

He closed his eyes and breathed, seeing the truth in her words. He knew the whole time he was taking the life of another human with each pulling of the trigger. Every German he struck down was one family shattered. Every German maimed was one life destroyed. And through it all, even if they were the accursed enemy the entire Free World sought to defeat, they were in the end human.

"That's the cruel reality of it all, isn't it, Jane? What can I do then to shake this all off? How can I start over again after what I have seen?"

"What can a person do when he has seen such tragedy, Renton? Does he accept his fate and move on, or does he let it haunt him forever? That is for you to decide. I cannot make that choice for you."

He nodded and rose to his feet, seeing her point. This was a hurdle _he_ must pass over. This was a battle in himself that he must fight and win alone. No one else could influence him; he was in this fight all by himself, just as he had been in Stalingrad, fighting for Eureka all by himself.

"I see. Then I shall not burden you further."

"You have not nor will ever be a burden to me," she responded softly in the most caring and sincere voice. "There will always be times where you will have to rely on your friends for support. And for that I will always be here."

She drew closer to him, and with a caring gentle touch took his hand in hers, clasping it as if entreating him to follow her into some great promised land where there was no fighting, no sorrow, and no pain.

"You have my sincere thanks," he said smiling. "You're a true friend Jane."

"I pray for you, Renton. As a friend, classmate, and cherished companion. Whatever happens, I'm always a word or call away."

"Do you swear that?"

"I do. From the bottom of my heart."

He breathed deeply and heavily before embracing her, feeling for once that he was not alone in the fight. If ever he felt wavering or his spirits flagging, there was always a friend behind him to support him. And that would carry him throughout this trial and the ones to come. He whispered quiet words of thanks, words he knew she didn't understand but felt no other way to say.

"Spasibo, milaya Jane." (A/N: Thank you, dear Jane.)

Renton slowly broke from Jane's caring embrace and saw in her deep blue eyes a person he could count on and turn to. She would not waver in her devotion to him for a second. But he had to make sure that her promise would be kept. Even if this war should go on, if he should be called abroad again to save someone, would she still be behind him? If he became a warlock, would she be a witch?

"One thing I must ask of you, Jane."

"And what would that be, Renton?" she asked, in her most soft and caring tone that she could muster.

"If I must go out again to save another, if this war demands more sinning from me, will you still follow me? If I become a monster, will you be one too?"

"Yes, Renton," she said, nodding in her response. "Where you go I will always follow."

"That's comforting to know. Thank you for listening to me, Jane. It helps more than I can say in words."

"For you I will probably do anything, Renton," she said with a gentle smile across the softened features of her face. "Just don't go around telling that to everyone. They may just get the wrong idea."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he laughed.

He turned to head to the market to pick up the food he had been meaning to buy, as she went to go her own way when he stopped himself and turned to her one last time.

"Jane."

"Yes?" she responded looking softly into his eyes.

"Don't tell anyone you saw me today. I really just need to readjust after everything, and it will be easier for me to do it without people constantly seeking me out."

"Of course, Renton. Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you. Now I must get going."

With that, the two friends bid each other farewell until another day would come when they would see each other, and with Renton's spirits brightened. He looked up and saw the dark clouds had given way to the rays of sun shining light upon the world. He beamed, feeling that God must truly be smiling on him after his heartfelt admonition to his closest friend.

It was as Jane said. He had nothing to be guilty of. He had done his duty. And even if it made him a sinner, she and everyone else close to him would still support and stand behind him. That made the burden he felt lighter than a feather.

* * *

**Author's Note: Something I forgot to mention is that I have been finally published after many years of waiting and editing. You can buy my book now on lulu; t****he link is on my profile. I really appreciate anyone who takes the time to buy and leave a review. You guys have all helped me get this far. Look forward to some more chapters once every few days unless I state otherwise.**

**Until next time,**

**Jordan**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: One of the things I cleaned up a lot in the story was how Renton and Eureka ultimately became a couple. In the original they were an item by the end of the first story, but the way they came together was really clumsy and wooden. It was just her crying and admitting to Renton that she loved him, when, so often in life, confessions don't work that way. So instead, there is a process here through which they become closer. Part of the process was Eureka making a new friend in America, who you will see here. And I think you will enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**January 16****th****, 1943**

The week passed by rather quickly, with Renton attending classes, completing home assignments, and finding refuge and reprieve with Eureka. They exchanged stories of days in Stalingrad frequently, and Eureka had just as much if not more to share than Renton. One episode stood out to him in particular, one that had stayed with her since the early days of the siege that still dragged on…

_September 23__rd__, 1942_

_Stalingrad, USSR_

_She had just returned from the rations warehouse with the month's supplies and was on her way home when she heard scattered gunfire from a nearby street block. She tried to ignore it, as her brothers had told her time and again to always stay out of the fray as much as possible. But the further on she walked, the gunfire seemed to grow louder rather than fainter. How strange that the altercation happening somewhere in her own neighborhood seemed to follow her, tempting her into picking up a weapon, any weapon, and join the fight her countrymen took part in day after day. _

_Curiosity eventually got the better of her and she followed the sound of gunfire to where it was loudest, walking two blocks before running into an intense firefight. A stray shell lobbed from the German side of this skirmish quickly prompted her to take cover behind a mound of debris, and play the audience of this tragic play._

_On a three-way intersection about three blocks away from where she stood was a four-story grey office building, where the large volume of fire was coming from. It looked as if the Germans had occupied that building. Two blocks behind her behind a tall heap of debris sat a small group of Red Army officers with a Maxim machine gun, loaded and waiting. For what? She could not tell. It was at that moment when she heard the blowing of a whistle, and a large column of soldiers rushed by the officers at full speed like an express train racing through the night, cheering and yelling in a great chorus to take on the fight. She could barely make out what the officers were yelling to the men as they passed, but it sounded like the old order Stalin had given to the entire Army: Not One Step Back._

_She watched in quiet agony as her Russian brothers charged towards the apartment building like an unruly disorganized mob, all with a solid determination to drive away the hated enemy._

_Just as she had predicted, the men began to fall in groups. Cries and screams of those who had misfortune to receive a shot through the heart or the head filled the air mixing with the cacophony of gunfire, with the Germans clearly having the advantage in this fight. Those who were unluckier were not graced with death's embrace but received atrocious wounds in myriad of places, leaving them unable to walk or to fire their rifles. Death abounded everywhere and innocence and mercy was nowhere to be found. The mob of Russian soldiers had not gotten a street block away from the building that they began to waver in the face of horrendous enemy fire. _

_She heard a young soldier, a few years older than her, call out to all of them in a broken and despairing cry,_

"_It's hopeless, comrades! We're getting murdered! Fall back!"_

_Soon, all in the attacking formation turned and ran or limped back towards where they originally started, crying for an appeal to sanity and calling for a withdrawal in light of the appalling casualties sustained. The officers behind the rubble pile however had other ideas._

"_Turn around, comrades!" Shouted one burly goateed officer, wielding a semiautomatic revolver. "Keep going forward!"_

"_We're getting killed out there! Get back!"_

"_Pick up your gun and shoot!" Commanded another officer, carrying a lofty crimson banner that was the flag of their nation, the symbol of the motherland they had sworn to protect._

_Alas, the soldiers were caught between two sides with neither truly supporting those carrying the rifles; one side was out for domination and the other a tool of a murderous and cruel dictator. Caught on both sides by bullets, what can one do but fall?_

"_In the name of the Soviet Union!" yelled an officer wielding a submachine gun, pointed towards the retreating soldiers. "Not a step back or we shoot!"_

"_No retreat!" reiterated the burly officer. "Not one step backwards!"_

"_No mercy for cowards!"_

"_FIRE!"_

_Soon the officers and the machine gun opened up with their own rain of lead, ripping the retreating soldiers to shreds. Betrayed by their own leaders, the soldiers had no other choice but to keep running and hope not to die. Sadly, for many of them that hope would not be fulfilled. Eureka watched in horror as she saw Russian kill Russian in cold blood, and leaving the Germans in possession of the ground. It was a battle that could have been won easily, but victory was sacrificed for something much less. She turned away and ran as far away from the scene of carnage and searched for her way home._

_She would encounter another group of Red Army soldiers rushing to the same position, and from the sound of battle in the 20 minutes that passed, the battle seemed to be of a more favorable outcome than previous. But even with the light of that retrospective victory, the horrifying spectacle was now burned into her eyes, the episode would remain in her memories for the remainder of the siege, and would not leave even after Renton had found her at last._

This was the story that struck at Renton the most, never before knowing that the soldiers of her own country were capable of or willing to perform such brutality. They at least took comfort in the fact that now they would never have to bear witness to such cruelty again, or at least that was what they hoped.

Despite that, coming home did not have its array of excitement each week other than chatting with her about stories of home and comfort in her safety, but she was growing increasingly tired of Renton's overprotection to the point of not letting her even go outside. Renton always said that he feared agents may have followed them home, but she was not as paranoid as he.

That day she awoke to find she was the only one awake in the house; Renton was fast asleep and his brother had gone off again to work at the shipyards, so she was more or less on her own. The house was silent and the window shades were down as if to ward off potential unwanted visitors. She found Renton asleep on the sofa wrapped in his blanket. He looked so peaceful and childlike when he was asleep that just the sight of him made her giggle in amusement. He stirred, and quietly groaned as he adjusted his position. She smiled and knelt down next to him, running her fingers through his unkempt oak brown hair, to which he chuckled softly in contentment. She closed her actions with a gentle kiss on his forehead, as a mother would give to her child upon tucking in.

She looked on with fondness to the boy closest to her heart as she slipped out of the house with no notice from him.

"Sleep well…my darling."

What struck her about the outside was that the sky was covered in clouds and she could feel a slight patter of rain falling from the sky, snow's less dangerous cousin. She always thought his home town would be a sunny and cheerful place, but it seemed to give as much gloom and darkness as the home she had just left. No matter, she thought. Perhaps his town will be of cheerful nature…

She strolled into town keeping an eye on her home so she knew which way to go back. It was akin to a dog venturing for the first time out of its doghouse and exploring the world around it, so getting lost easily was a dangerous prospect that was omnipresent in her mind. That did not sway her, however, as she contently and happily walked along the sidewalks, almost skipping like a merry schoolgirl in love for the first time. The thing that immediately struck her about the town was how empty it seemed, the streets being deserted except for a few cars that quietly drove by her, and only scattered lone individuals traversed sidewalks. She passed by shop windows displaying quiet merchandise…

A record store with a phonograph for sale.

A toy shop with a wooden train strung together with thin twine.

A furniture store with a new cloth armchair complete with a matching ottoman.

One thing that made her turn bright red was the lingerie shop, seeing all unmentionables and special things used by the fairer sex to charm and to tease on display in a window. In her lifetime spent in Stalingrad, she never thought that such a place existed. Renton must have passed by this shop many times, she mused, giggling at the thought of seeing an embarrassed Renton turn crimson from each passing.

"Is it so strange?" said someone from nearby her.

Eureka jumped in surprise and turned to her left to find a fiery red-haired girl with strange amethyst eyes. She seemed to be the kind of soul found running through the open steppes of Russia, picking flowers and blowing dandelions, but the strange eyes betrayed a hot-blooded spirit dwelling within her. She wore a long white dress with two thick orange stripes near the hemline with red high-heeled shoes. In her hair she had two gold banana style hairclips keeping the long seemingly infinite strands out of her face.

Eureka was of course nervous. She had learned some English from Renton and it was enough to get her by, but it had not been until now when she had the need to use it. She hesitated and slowly formed a basic sentence.

"Err…is what?"

"The lingerie shop," said the girl laughing, pointing to the shop that seemed intent on making her hide in shame.

"Mozhet biyt'," she said, forgetting the correct English word for the situation.

The girl tilted her head in confusion, never hearing her language spoken before.

"Are you Russian?"

"Da…er, yes."

The girl smiled, appearing contrite.

"We have a lot of Russian immigrants around here, but I never met one before. Where are you from?"

"Stalingrad."

The girl's eyes widened at the mention of that martyred city's name.

"You mean…THE Stalingrad?"

"I don't know of any other Stalingrad."

The girl chuckled, but instantly corrected herself for fear of offending her.

"I don't suppose you know of Renton Thurston, do you?"

Eureka's eyes widened upon hearing his name. Renton always gave the impression that he wasn't much of a standout in his town and a rather ordinary citizen rather than the extraordinary hero so many others made him out to be.

"Rentoshka? You know him?"

"We go to school together. There isn't a single person in this town who hasn't heard of that boy, especially after he came back from Stalingrad. Did you know him?"

"He…he my friend."

The girl narrowed her eyes and smiled slyly.

"Ooh, so he came back to rescue his lover, huh? I didn't think Renton could be so romantic."

Eureka blushed in embarrassment and tried to disprove her notion.

"N-Nyet! W-we're not like that!"

She looked away, wondering whether that was true or not. So many thoughts came to mind when Renton's name was mentioned, and she longed for him for those four years, so it was not unfair to say there was not some semblance of attachment between them.

"…at least not yet."

The girl looked into the windows of the lingerie shop and a light bulb seemed to turn on in her head as she grinned wide and turned to Eureka again.

"I know the perfect way to change that…"

Eureka's eyes seem to brighten at the prospect of becoming closer to Renton than she already was. If this girl had a good idea for such an endeavor she was willing to try it.

"What is it?"

"Come with me."

She took her by the hand and led her into the lingerie shop, despite her protests. The girl however was strong in her grip, and all attempts to break free were in vain.

"N-nyet! This is not what I—!"

"Trust me, girl, this is what a man likes!"

She refused to open her eyes lest she die from embarrassment, but she felt herself pushed into a room. When she opened her eyes, she found herself in a dressing room, facing a mirror with the red-haired girl by her side. In her reflection, the thing that struck her was that she still wore her old clothes from Russia: a long baby blue dress with frilled sleeves, a patched bodice and torn hemline, remnants from the siege that her former home was still in. Over her fragile shoulders hung a cream colored shawl, also tattered around the edges. She could not deny she was in desperate need of some new clothes. Even if this was not the place she would have gone first, it was better than not going anywhere.

The girl was grinning from ear to ear, her light hands on Eureka's delicate shoulders, her amethyst eyes bright with anticipation. She seemed like this was something normal that she did with her friends or significant others many a day. Eureka was still nervous, and understandably so.

"Listen, I don't even know who you are!" Eureka spluttered, her face turning red. "Shouldn't we introduce ourselves first?"

"Sure," the girl said, still bearing a wide grin. "My name's Anemone Doolittle. What's yours?"

"Eureka Petrovna Novikova. Everyone calls me Eureka."

"Listen, Eureka, you have to trust me on this," said Anemone, her eyes shining deviously, "Guys love it when girls wear something sexy."

Eureka's face was now a vibrant bright red.

"Sexy? A-are you sure, Anemone?"

"Sure, I'm sure! I do it for my boyfriend all the time!"

Eureka felt an irrepressible urge to leave and return home, and maybe ask Renton what on earth all of this meant. However she looked at herself again in the mirror, and felt the questions she kept asking repeating in her head. How long? How long before she could actually be honest with him? How long before she could come out and say everything she felt in her heart right now?

In the mirror an innocent looking girl wearing rags stared back at her. Her old clothes didn't hide her gentle feminine grace, but at the same time she felt lowered by them. Perhaps what Anemone was saying had some validity to it; if she wanted to finally be honest with Renton and tell him what she felt, perhaps the first step was to get Renton's attention with a new look. This isn't exactly where she had intended to start, but it was better than no start at all.

She quickly took off her shawl and untied the ribbon around the waist of her dress, watching as her two petticoats fell from under her and around her feet. Finally she slowly pulled her old dress over her head and let it hit the floor, leaving her in only her underclothes which were archaic compared to what she was surrounded with: a simple bleached camisole and short bloomers. Now she couldn't deny it; she needed a new image for herself. Anemone concurred.

"Yeah, definitely outdated. You need a new look, Eureka."

"I suppose I do," Eureka said with a chuckle. "I never could get anything new when the Germans attacked. I lived off the same old clothes until Renton came."

"Oh you poor dear! Please tell me that you are joking!"

"I only wish I was."

"Well me and you are going to work on that right now, okay? By the time we're done, Renton isn't going to recognize you."

She giggled through a wide smile that definitely showed Eureka that she could be trusted.

"And that I can promise."

"Thank you, Anemone."

She looked to a chair upon which sat a stack of undergarments for which the term risqué was being generous. Her throat dried from the feeling of embarrassment again, but Anemone's promise to her was enough to pick out the top one and quickly examine it.

It was baby blue, the color of her dress, with embroidered lace and a frilly waistband. On the center was a small bow tied with a white ribbon.

"That one there," Anemone said smirking at the embarrassed Eureka, "Is saying, 'I may be cute and innocent on the outside but I'm naughty on the inside.'"

Eureka chuckled, wondering what Renton's reaction to it would be if something ever happened that he got a chance viewing. Renton was very shy and reserved from such matters, so it made her giggle in amusement.

"Renton would probably faint if he saw these."

"That's the point!" she said boisterously. "It'll be good for him to live and learn a bit instead of being reclusive all the time."

Eureka laughed, knowing that fact about Renton all too well. She remembered the time when she dared him to kiss her back in the tree house that late summer day, which succeeded in earning a heated blush from his countenance.

"It's true. He was very shy and quiet when I first met him. Like he was afraid of the city he was in. The last he came, it seemed like he grew up. Is he like that here at home too?"

"Well, it's hard to tell with him unfortunately," she sighed sitting down on a chair next to the changing rooms. "Each day is different and new when it comes to learning how he is. We still don't know how he is on the inside as he doesn't open up to people very well."

Eureka sighed with thought as she tried on the underwear, knowing that distinctive aloofness that made Renton a hard character to reach, but she knew him to be the sweet and caring soul underneath the silent and distant exterior.

"I know he's kind and caring underneath all of that, but it's quite hard to talk to him on some days," she said as she pulled up the garment by the waistband. "I get the feeling he's deeply troubled by something."

"Yes, but he doesn't tell any of us what it is. I guess that's why we find him hiding in the library or at home most of the time. He doesn't go out usually unless needed. We can get him to come out with us as a group on certain occasions but that's usually as far as things progress."

Eureka was stunned by this, as during his first visit in Stalingrad, he was never afraid to journey out with her, her family or their friends upon invitation, but when none had anything in mind to do, Renton always kept to himself or, more often, turned to her for company. She fondly reminisced about those happier days as she slid the underwear over her nether regions and examined herself in the mirror. She chuckled, finding it a perfect fit and charming on her.

"He was like that sometimes when I first met him, but he was still eager to play with all of us and journey out. Doesn't he have friends here, too, though? I'd hate to think I'm the only one supporting him here."

"He does," she responded looking up and into Eureka's worried expressions. "But something in him snapped one day and he turned into the person he is now. I know you say you have known him since you were both children, but would you know anything about this?"

Eureka searched through her memories and the day when he had to leave with his father stood out to her. He seemed saddened, more so than anyone would be upon bidding newfound friends goodbye. He talked to her for what felt like an eternity before finally bidding her goodbye and promising he would return one day, but despite his promises and admissions of cherishing the time they spent, something weighed on him as if a piece of his very own heart was taken away from him. She could tell in how he slinked up the steps to his passenger car and waved farewell to all of them, standing on the station platform.

"I think when he had to leave us," Eureka remembered. "Something was weighing him down terribly that day. Perhaps he felt he wasn't going to see me or any of us again. He was very depressed and quiet the whole day. He talked to me for what seemed like hours before he finally moved onto the train and bid us all goodbye."

"So do you perhaps think it was because he believed he had lost your friendship?"

Eureka shook her head.

"He had our friendship from the day he entered our city. I think…nyet, I _know_ it was something with me. He looked as if he had left a part of himself with me, standing there at the train station. I want to believe he felt he lost…he lost…"

Suddenly she felt tears well up in her eyes. She laughed as she wiped away her tears, thinking to herself how silly it was that she was crying when she knew she should be happy, happy and with her Renton at last after four long years.

"Oh, look at me. Here I am, crying when I should be laughing! Crying as if I lost him when I just got him back!"

"He lost a piece of himself within you," Anemone said smiling at her. "The day he left a part of him remained with you. You, my dear Russkie friend, had someone who loved you but was a bit too young to understand that yet."

Eureka looked to her, and knew she was right. And she left a piece of herself with him as he left them all that day. He didn't come back for four years, and that loneliness both of them felt was from loss of a soul mate, a true friend…no, far more than that now. The loss of her first love…her _only_ love.

"I know. And I know now that he's back and with me, he can heal. It will be a long time before he's his old self, but he will overcome it. I know because I'm the only one who can heal him now."

"And I can already tell you why that is Eureka," Anemone said assuredly. "It's as easy as reading a book."

Eureka nodded, and she saw one last obstacle for them both: finally being honest. They had gone through so much in the past month, but that one last enemy in the long campaign that was their relationship remained to be vanquished before achieving lasting and sweet victory.

"All I wish now is the day to come for him to finally say what I've been hoping for him to say for so long," she said longingly as she examined herself from behind in the mirror.

"I see you have already figured your feelings out. I do have to say I'm impressed. Now if you can just get him to open up to that he'll be a whole new person."

"I figured out my feelings for him a long time ago, Anemone. All that remains is just him to figure it out as well."

She ran her hand up her backside seeing how the underwear showed off her assets with flirtatious and seductive intent. She giggled, wondering if Renton ever thought of her as such, not as a friend…but as a woman, with a blossoming figure for a 15-year-old. Anemone laughed, seeing her enthusiasm taking hold now.

"If you think that set looks good, wait until you see the other sets I've chosen for you. I do believe he'll be quite impressed if he ever gets a peek at them, if not totally embarrassed."

Eureka chuckled playfully, fancying how Renton would react if she came home with her new garments.

"Knowing him," she said as she examined the next pair, "He'll be the latter, if not passed out on the floor!"

"Just the reaction we want to see! So let's get busy okay?" she responded giggling. "And no more of this frumpy old stuff for you, understand?"

"You don't have to tell me twice," Eureka said with a wide smile. "Besides, I was in need of something new anyway."

"Yes I can see that. I guess it's a good thing we ran into each other today. Otherwise this would not have happened."

Eureka smiled at her new friend, seeing that she could easily trust her; she listened to her pour her soul out and confiding her thoughts about the one boy closest to her heart. She had not spoken one ill word since they made contact, and it was proof enough she was a kindhearted soul.

They spent what seemed like a day and a half in the shop, trying on and examining different garments that would serve to entice and lure Eureka's closest friend out from the seemingly impenetrable fortress he had built around keeping all the world out. In the times they spent comparing clothes and trading tips, Eureka made a friend of Anemone Doolittle, a small step in adjusting to life in America.

She could see in her a empathetic character like Renton with a fiery passion and unstoppable ambition and drive, as well as a kindred spirit and confidant to whom she can turn to for advice in this new and strange land.

They left the shop, and bid goodbye to each other, with Anemone wishing her the best between her and Renton. In Anemone's own words,

"Knock him dead, Eureka!"

She returned home with a bag of unmentionables clutched in her hand, all with the purpose of seducing, teasing, enticing, alluring the boy who resided in the little bungalow on the hill that was her new home. She had a small sensation of fear, however, of what Renton might say or do when he found out she had gone outside without permission. But Anemone had advised her about what to do if such a thing were to occur:

"Don't let him walk over you, Eureka. You might love him, but you have to set some boundaries with him as well. And if that doesn't work, just do that move I told you to do; it'll knock him out totally."

She walked up the steps and came to the door, pressing her ear against the wood in the hope that she would hear him sleeping.

All she heard was silence. It was good enough for her.

She carefully and deliberately turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open, determined to make as little noise as possible. She stepped into the house, hoping to see Renton still fast asleep on the sofa, unmoved and unchanged from when she left the house earlier this day.

She was to be disappointed, however.

There in the easy chair in the corner of the living room, with his legs crossed, fully dressed and ready to go out, sat Renton Ivanovich Thurston, looking obviously displeased. The signs of his irritation were evident: his sock-encased foot was tapping with displeasure on the carpet, his arms spread across the arms of the chair as a member of royalty's delicate hands spread across the arms of his throne, and the grimace found in a father disappointed with his offspring.

"H-Hello, Rentoshka," Eureka greeted, smiling nervously, knowing she was caught. "So you finally got up."

"And just where have _you_ been this whole day?" he returned, his piercing green eyes unflinching.

Eureka remembered Anemone's words; she needed to be firm, and set down the fact that she was not a child.

"Just out," she said nonchalantly.

"Out where?"

"In town. I wanted to see what it looked like."

"By yourself?" he asked, still not satisfied.

Eureka frowned slightly.

"Renton, I can manage outside just perfectly."

"You could have gotten lost!" he protested, obviously not backing down easily. "And God only knows what awful people you could have run into while out by yourself. What if a Soviet agent had found you?"

"Don't you think you're being a bit silly, Rentoshka? There are no agents here; we lost them when we left Vladivostok. We're safe now."

"How do you know that?" Renton pressed, his overprotection of her fast growing exhausting. "For all we know there might have been one on the ship, following us and watching us this whole time."

"You're being ridiculous, Renton!" Eureka responded, the fire in her growing stronger. "I didn't even meet anyone like that in town today."

"Who did you meet?" Renton inquired, obviously intrigued.

"A girl named Anemone Doolittle. She told me you know her."

Renton sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, troubled.

"She's right; I do. I know her and her boyfriend."

"Well, _she's_ not a distrustful person."

"No she isn't," he relented. "She's a very nice girl."

"Yes she is, and you shouldn't be so quick to judge."

"I just fear for you Eureka," Renton said, trying to reason with her and make her understand. "I would hate for someone to find you again and take you back."

"Well that won't happen, Renton. That's all over now. And I'm not a child anymore; I should be able to go outside if I want to see what your home is like."

Renton laid his head back, sighing. Of course she wasn't a child; she was a young woman ready to blossom now, but at the same time a delicate fragile flower. And now that she was here, she had to do what she could to fit into the new home, and meeting a friend from school and exploring the town was a good place to start. In that moment, he quickly found his tinge of hypocrisy. He brought her here to bring her out of suffering and take her away from the cruelty of the world, but now, blinded by his need to protect, he was making her suffer.

"Very well. You can go out, but please tell me first?"

"Of course, Renton."

"So what did you do with Anemone?"

"She took me shopping for some new…clothes," she said, adding some emphasis to the last word, indicating to Renton it wasn't just any kind of clothes she bought with her.

Renton raised an eyebrow.

"What kind of clothes?"

Eureka smirked, with a glint in her grey eyes that Renton had never seen before. There was an opportunity to be had, here, and she was not intent on wasting it.

"Well, wouldn't _you_ like to know…"

"Yes, I would," Renton said matter-of-factly. "I'm curious."

Eureka cheered inside her head, seeing an opportunity for something Anemone taught her to do in the last few hours. She brought one of the shopping bags to her chest and started to rummage through it, searching for something to aid her in her purpose.

"I'm actually glad you asked," Eureka said, "because I wanted to get your opinion on some of these…"

"Sure, Eureka," Renton answered with a friendly smile. "I'd be happy to help."

"Good…"

She found what she was looking for in her bag and fished it out. Needless to say, it was not what Renton was expecting to see…and it was not something he was looking to give an opinion on.

She held in her hands one of the piece of lingerie that she bought with Anemone: a pair of underwear, blue and seductive. It was embroidered with lace and trimmed with frills along the waistband, topped with a white bow on the front. It managed to combine innocence and sexuality perfectly…and it was not something Renton was used to seeing.

He immediately averted his eyes as he felt blood rushing to his face. Eureka pushed her lingerie forward, trying to get his attention.

"I want to know what you think of these. Anemone said all the girls in town are wearing things like this now, but I feel like it's too showy. What do you think?"

"Eureka, what are you doing!?"

"Hmm?" she asked, appearing confused. "I'm just showing you one of the things I bought. You said you'd help me, right?"

"Yeah, but…I didn't think you'd buy…_those_ kinds of clothes…"

"Anemone said that…boys like it when girls wear these…"

Eureka blushed slightly at that statement, as she was still uncertain if any of what Anemone said would actually help her or just push Renton further away. Renton closed his eyes and sighed, his cheeks still bright red.

"I obviously have a lot to say to Anemone next time I see her, then."

"About what?"

"Never you mind…"

"Why are you acting like this, Renton? All I'm asking for is some advice on this…"

Renton opened his eyes, and immediately wished he didn't. She still was holding onto the underwear she so desperately wanted him to comment on.

"Eureka, it's not really normal for a girl to be asking a boy about…_those_. That's more something girls talk about amongst themselves…"

"Really?" Eureka said in surprise at this new revelation. "Anemone didn't tell me that…"

"I get the sense Anemone didn't tell you a lot of things, and perhaps with some deliberate intention."

"What do you mean by that, Renton? Anemone doesn't seem like that kind of person at all."

Renton cleared his throat and pushed her hands down gently, so the lingerie was out of his view.

"That's not what concerns me. What I find more odd is that you chose clothes like these to buy with her, and not something else. And besides which…"

He gently took her hands in his, trying with all of his might to not gaze at her newly bought undergarments.

"…I doubt seriously that all the girls dress like how Anemone says they do. Anemone just happens to have…extravagant taste."

"What would you have me buy instead?" Eureka asked with just a trace of a smirk on her lips.

"I wouldn't have you buy anything, Eurekasha. I like you the way you are. You don't have to change anything about yourself to please me. It wouldn't be you, then."

Eureka was, naturally, deflated by that comment of his. Yet at the same time, it was exactly who he was in those years past. Reserved, conservative, and a stickler for consistency. In the same way he traveled across the Pacific and back in an attempt to have things the way they were, so too did he desire to have Eureka as she was. Eureka was not such a person to have things stay the same between them, as she made it clear on the ship back home. Thus, she made it clear now.

"Aren't you a stick in the mud?" Eureka giggled, stuffing her underwear back into her bag. "You know, you actually gave me just what I was looking for."

"Nu shto ty?" he asked in her native tongue, obliviously perplexed.

Eureka tapped him on the nose with her delicate finger.

"It'd be a very boring existence if us girls never changed how we looked from time to time, my dear Rentoshka. Sometimes, it's necessary for us to have nice things like that…so we can get a surprise on a boy."

Renton blushed and realized just how close she was to him, her face a hair's breadth away. The only thing he could see was her cindering grey eyes, sparking with a fire he had seen in their youths. It was a glint in the eyes that meant mischief, that called to adventure, and always heralded trouble for the both of them. It was intimidating and yet inviting, as it was something he had missed in her all these years.

"Is there a boy who you have in mind for all of this?" Renton asked hesitantly.

"I'm not giving myself away just yet. But you'll know…in time."

With another laugh she skipped off to the bedroom and went to the business of filing away her new garments, reveling in this small victory in a campaign of the heart.

* * *

**Author's note: Something I neglected to mention is that in mid-January, I'm starting a new job. That may slow down the process of writing this all out, but I intend to finish it so I can sooner move on to the other stories on here. As I said, everything here is completely new and is being inserted into the saga because of the numerous changes that have been made over the years. I highly appreciate any and all criticisms made by you, the reader. **

**Many thanks in advance!**

**Jordan**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: In the original second part of the story, Jane really fell by the wayside. She didn't do much to get close to Renton, and just served as a foil to Eureka. At one point her friendship with him broke apart because she spilled out everything she felt and it was never written with any subtlety. So kiss that goodbye here. She's central to this story as she recognizes Eureka as competition, and fights her tooth and nail for Renton's attention. Naturally that has to begin with some backstory as to who she is. Hence this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**January 22****nd****, 1943**

The last class of the week had just ended, much to his silent rejoicing as he quietly and hurriedly packed his knapsack in preparation for his journey home to the girl patiently waiting for him in his modest little bungalow sitting perched on the hill. The professor had called on him a few times and he did his duty and answered all asked of him, but in his head he quietly wished for an end to this. Thankfully he got his wish.

He made his way out of the classroom, and towards the courtyard of the school through the long, seemingly infinite hallways. While passing by the rows of lockers and shuffling past classmates, he heard the quiet passing of rumors and stories concerning him, and bore witness to his fame spreading faster than he would like.

"That's him, Jake. The kid who fought in Stalingrad."

"They say he killed more than 200 Krauts!"

"I heard he was decorated by the Russians…"

"Didn't he travel to Stalingrad because of a girl he loved?"

He said nothing to the last question, one that was not even posed to him. What could he say about his reasons for going and fighting in a war he would rather have no part in? No one could truly understand what drove him across the Pacific and over the frozen empty Russian steppes. No one could relate to what was felt between him and her. They were a world apart from all the others in this school, in this town. He would rather they all left him be so he could continue the struggle in his soul of what he felt towards that modest quiet girl for whom he had undertaken everything. What _did_ exist between them? It was certainly more than mere friendship now. It wasn't quite love either, however.

He wracked his brain for an answer as to where they stood now, and the damning question she asked him once again reverberated.

_Petroshka, if you were destined to stay in Russia forever, or if I was a citizen of your country, would you and I have fallen in love?_

He continued dodging the question, but the one true answer seemed to stick since he quietly confessed to Chertov before they escaped. The one word that seemed to sum up everything he felt towards that humble girl waiting for him at home. He thought it was simply a way to convince the secret police to let them leave unmolested, but the more he thought about it, the stronger that one word took hold in his heart.

She was the best friend he made while abroad. She was the sole reason he risked his very life in a land that was not his. She was the one person who he felt could understand him and he her. She was the closest person to his heart in every sense.

Whenever Russia was spoken, she was there.

Whenever he felt tormented and beleaguered by past sins, she comforted him.

Whenever he felt in need of a companion, he turned to her.

Whenever his friends joked of falling in love, he thought of her.

She was a part of him now. She had been so ever since he left her there standing on the docks of Stalingrad, he a mere boy of twelve and she a tender, vulnerable girl approaching eleven. He was wracked by depression at the mere mentioning of her name since he left her homeland, as if a part of his own heart had been cut out and left to rot in the unforgiving sun. He left a piece of himself with her the day he left. And no matter how much he desired to go and see her, comfort her when times seemed darkest, he did not return until four years later.

He ground his teeth and covered his right eye, lost on what this aching pain was in his heart. He tried to think of a way to get her out of his head.

_But do you really want her gone from your thoughts?_

That counter from himself troubled him further. He didn't hate her. Far from it. She was the dearest person in his life, but something about being more than just a simple close friend seemed to make his heart waver. Why? It was a situation that any other boy would jump at without hesitation or second thought; what boy didn't dream of falling in love with someone he had known all his life? Silent costly wars raged in his head as he battled to find a reason why his heart hesitated.

As he continued searching through the battlefields of his subconscious, a voice broke the silence he had shrouded himself in.

"Hey Renton!"

He looked to see where the call came from, and found that it was from one of his friends, Dominic Sorel.

Dominic, or "Dom" as he preferred to be called by those close to him, had first met Renton during grade school, and quickly became friends. He was part and parcel to the teasing Renton endured upon his return from Russia for gaining a friend out of a girl, and Renton was always quick to mark him with the sign of hypocrisy for his feeling for a significant other. Dominic's greatest dream was to be a soldier in the army, but he never seemed to mind the terrors and nightmares that would come with the job; he worked as a volunteer at the Presidio in San Francisco and was in his second year of Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps.

Off the training grounds and out of uniform however, he was a simple, caring soul with a demeanor to match. He was a supportive friend to Renton, but now he grew wary of Renton's continued isolation and reclusive nature.

"Dom…" Renton said with a tired smile. "What can I do for you, my friend?"

"We still got some New Year's cake left over, and I'd like it if you joined us for some this weekend."

Renton turned his eyes away, wondering what he was after. Everyone who asked him for a moment of his time was more interested in stories from a soldier returned from the front rather than the actual soldier himself. But he knew Dominic better than that; he was a friend who never asked for much, and never demanded much in return. Perhaps all he was after in the end was just the company of his dear friend.

"I'll come by tomorrow."

Dominic beamed. Finally, he was able to lure the hermit out of his cave.

"It'd be nice if you could bring Eureka, too. Anemone would love to see her again."

"Sure, Dominic. She'll come."

With the matter of friendly gatherings concluded, the two friends parted ways and Renton made his way out of the main school building and down the long concrete steps to the courtyard facing the street that would eventually lead him home. However, he was to be intercepted by another, meaning the same objective as Dominic, but with different intentions.

"Oh, Renton!"

Renton recognized the voice and looked to find Jane Hart, the British girl who always found a way to be with him when he needed it. The friend that seemed to stand out to him as the others drifted away like small toy boats floating down a stream. Renton smiled, happy to see her.

"Hello, Jane. What can I do for you?"

Jane blushed and slid her Mary-Jane encased foot back and forth, sifting the loose dirt as one would sift sand on the beach.

"I don't suppose…if you have the time, that is…you could stop by my house before going home?"

Renton turned to face her, staring at her intently with those piercing green eyes that seemed to stab like daggers. The eyes did not give the slightest hint to his thoughts, his barrier to others even extending to one of his closer friends. His solitude and isolation was something that had bothered her greatly, and surely others, but she was determined to see him come around, even if she had to drag him. Surprisingly, however, Renton did not give a rejection.

"Certainly, Jane. I'd be happy to."

Jane grinned at his approval.

"Oh, lovely! I'm _so_ glad you can come. Finally I have someone else to share tea with."

Renton chuckled at the prospect of having tea. Fitting for an outing with a British woman.

"What kind of tea do you have?" he asked casually as they walked down the steps.

"Earl Grey and English Breakfast. Which one do you like?"

"English Breakfast, but I'll take either."

They laughed as if they were a couple who knew each other, inside and out. As they walked down the tall steps to the street, he mused of what was to be said of his friendship with Jane. It was similar to what he had with Eureka now, but at the same time, Jane and Renton were far more distant. They had gone together to some places such as his meditative spot on the beach and maybe they might see each other in the cafe or downtown, but apart from that, they rarely saw each other outside of school. Even if they were good friends, she hardly knew anything about him, and he about her.

Perhaps this trip to her house would give him an opportunity to know a little more about his Limey friend.

Then he spotted a public phone booth and remembered Eureka. He had to call her to let her know he would be late. He could not make her worry.

"Could you hang here for a bit? I just have to phone Eureka."

Jane nodded, acquiescing to his request. She watched with longing blue eyes as he trotted over to the phone booth and dialed a number. She wondered to herself what they talk about between the two of them at home. Renton spoke in a language Jane could not understand, only making out small words such as "da" and "nyet" and "kharasho" and occasionally hearing Eureka's name spoken. He laughed, sharing a private joke between the two separated by street blocks and the wire of the telephone their only connection.

Eureka.

The name stirred a strange, dark feeling from her. She had never even seen the girl Renton talked about so much and she had a sense that she should be watching out for her, like she was an existential threat. If she could make Renton smile, make Renton laugh, make Renton happy, then could she make Renton love her as well?

Jane felt like slapping herself at leveling such accusations with never even meeting the girl. She had to be a sweet and good little girl.

"Da, ponyatna, Eureka," he concluded in Russian. "Poka." (A/N: Yes, understood. Bye.)

He hung up the phone and took his change from the slot before exiting the booth and turning to Jane.

"We can go now."

They began walking along the road that led into Renton's neighborhood, with Renton following Jane as she knew the way, and this would be his first time entering her realm, her sanctuary from the world.

"You speak Russian very well, Renton," Jane complimented. "I'm impressed."

"I get by," Renton acquiesced, not wanting to brag.

Jane laughed at his overarching humility.

"Don't be so modest, Renton! It takes a lot of study and practice to master a language like Russian. You should be proud."

"I've had enough exposure to it throughout my life to know a thing or two. And journeying to the country _does_ help. Do you take a foreign language, Jane?"

"I take French," Jane joked, "and I have a hard enough time with it than when I started learning in London!"

"Have you ever gone to France?"

"Once or twice, but not enough to help me with my fluency. What about you?"

Renton looked up to the sky, and thought of the friends he left behind in France. After Russia, France had special significance since he spent much of his time in the Norman countryside. He made friends of the children in a small farming town. The town was now occupied by the Germans, and he knew full well that all the children, young men and women by now, must be suffering under the yoke of Nazi oppression.

"I was there for about a month when I first traveled to Europe," Renton said, holding back repressed sorrow. "I stayed in a small town in Normandy, and made some friends there. God knows what's happened to them since the occupation began."

Jane felt like slapping herself again, this time for making Renton melancholy. She was taking him to her home to make him feel happy with her, not make him wistful for happy days long since past.

"I'm sorry, Renton, I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"It's not your fault," Renton returned. "It's mine for always thinking about them."

"Don't talk like that," Jane countered. "Don't you say yourself how you should always be dedicated to your friends?"

Renton laughed, seeing Jane's point and noted his hypocrisy.

"You remember my words, I see…"

"Why wouldn't I, Renton? It's not every day you find someone so committed to the people around him."

"It's just something my family always taught me, Jane. Being faithful and loyal are signs of a trustworthy person."

"Very true, indeed."

"And what of you, Jane?" Renton asked, seeing an opportunity to learn something about his friend from across the pond. "Do you have any friends? Besides me, that is."

Jane pondered the question for a moment and turned to him asking clarification.

"Here or back in London?"

"Take your pick, I suppose."

Jane sighed, thinking back to her times in London before the Blitz that tore her friends and family apart. It seemed so distant to her now, much the way England was so distant. Sometimes she could only see fading fleeting glimpses of her past life that now seemed so far behind her. The world she once inhabited was lush and grandiose, filled with socials and parties, brimming with lessons by personal tutors, teaching her things far greater than her mind could comprehend. She had her friends here, but what she noticed was how status had nothing to do with where she was in this school or in this town for that matter. Her life in London was largely dictated by class and limited who she did and did not see. Here, she met all kinds of people, rich and poor, who cared not for how much money the other had or how the other was dressed or how eloquently one spoke but only delighted in the company of their fellow man and woman.

"In London, my family had a life of privilege."

"One of the rich snob families?" Renton joked, nudging her in the arm.

Jane shrugged it off with a feminine chuckle as they carefully trotted across the street, even though both knew there were no cars around.

"My family was well-off enough, let's put it like that. But being how our family was, it meant I was kept away from society most of the time. You would often find me with a tutor or at a party somewhere with some other family of significance. Most of the friends I had were friends of the family. If the war never came, it might have gone on like that for the rest of my life."

This piqued Renton's curiosity, as he was never fortunate enough to have the privileges Jane enjoyed. His family was of farming stock, and even if his was one of the better more profitable farms, they still struggled just to get by. He lived the Spartan life, devoid of any luxury or glamour. He wondered briefly how the farm must look now after all the years of neglect and age.

"What was it like, being a debutante?"

"I was hardly a debutante," she said laughing, not thinking much of it. "At times, it seemed like a dream. Chatting with friends over tea, sitting in on meetings with families, all of it. Sometimes I still wonder if it was all just my imagination. And then the war came."

"And that's when the dream ended?"

Jane sighed, remembering when she had to say goodbye to her parents and to her older brother as she left on a ship bound for New York, the start of her new life in America away from the old country.

"Yes. I left with my parents' blessing, and saw my brother for the last time. That is when I came here."

"I'm sorry all that had to happen."

"It's not your fault war came, Renton. I don't think any of us could have predicted what was to come."

"No, I suppose you're right. And what about now? How's life here different from what you experienced then?"

Jane smiled, thinking of all the friends she made here. She seemed to fit into a higher echelon in school, conversing and socializing with the more popular and fashionable people in the school. She could not deny that she was near the top of the heap, and at times the life she led here was not that different from the life of a socialite back in England. But at the same time there was something drastically different about what being a higher-up meant here.

"Well, I certainly get out more than in London," she chuckled. "But I suppose you could still qualify me in one of the higher echelons, at least as far as our school goes."

Renton laughed, noting the castes in their little realm of education. Jane always seemed to be off with the popular golden crowd, and he was on the lower rungs, only appreciated among his group of friends and acknowledged and respected among those who sat at or below him on the social food chain.

"Feeling a bit of envy, are you, my dear?" Jane said with a sly grin.

"Truth be told," Renton said lightly, "I've never cared much about things like status. I just go about my business in school and get my work done. It pays off for me most of the time."

"Well, it certainly shows with how well you do compared to the rest of us."

Renton blushed at the compliment.

"I just do what's expected of me, I guess," Renton laughed, embarrassed. "But I don't suppose you and the others in those high towers looking down on all of us ants talk about me much, do you?"

Jane saw a good opportunity to tease Renton as they approached her house.

"Well, wouldn't _you_ like to know, Mr. Daniels?"

"Indeed I would, Ms. Hart."

Renton was immediately drawn to the abode of Jane, which was about the same size of Renton's. It was a Victorian-patterned house, about two stories tall and adorned with decorated windows that seemed freshly painted. The house looked like it had been recently renovated, in far contrast to the aging state of his home. Surrounding the house was a picket fence enclosing a freshly cut and clean lawn with a small flower garden hanging near a bay window on the ground floor.

"Well the answer to that, my dear Renton," Jane giggled as she opened the gate to her home, "must wait until you and I have had tea."

"Seems fair to me," Renton laughed in return.

Jane offered him her arm and Renton took it, as they walked down the cobblestone path arms locked to the front door. Jane searched her dress pockets for presumably the key to the house and quickly found it before unlocking the door and opening it up.

"After you," she said, motioning him in first.

"No, after _you_," Renton countered, "I insist."

Jane chuckled and curtseyed slightly before slipping into the house with Renton quickly following. What struck Renton was how high-end the house looked from the interior. Floral patterned wallpaper covered the walls right down to the moss green carpeting that went wall-to-wall. Everywhere there hung old Victorian age portraits of people unrecognizable to Renton, harkening to an age of sensibility, reason, and austerity. The house seemed to speak, "A well-mannered lady of good standing lives here. She is eligible for a suitor, if you so desire her."

"Do you live alone here?" Renton asked, still taking in the dignified aura of the house.

"Yes, I do," she answered as she went into the kitchen and out of sight from Renton as he examined the front room.

"How do you pay for a house like this by yourself?" he posed to her, astonished.

"My parents regularly mail me enough money to pay the rent on this house, along with some funds for food and new clothes. But I'm always told to use it sparingly."

"What made you decide to live alone?"

"It wasn't my decision. Mother and Father thought it would be good for me. They said it would be a lesson in independence and self-reliance. I've gotten on fairly well, but of course, I would be a terrible liar if I said I didn't miss London sometimes."

Renton found a velvet Edwardian style sofa to seat himself on as he placed his knapsack against one of the legs, and sat tentatively waiting for Jane to bring in the tea. He had only been in the house for little than a few minutes, and he felt like he was in a place he didn't belong. The dignified and austere feeling of the house gave him feelings of increased restriction and isolation, as if he was a poor orphan boy who had wandered into a grand ball for royalty. He was a mild mannered farmer's boy breaking ice with a former personality of the London middle class, a well-brought-up young girl beginning to blossom into womanhood and come into the adult world.

She talked of things foreign to him; talks of parties, fancy dresses, of recitals and special tutors. Given how she described herself, she would be far out of his league anywhere else. And yet she still reached him. She still offered her hand to him and gave him her friendship and confidence. Why? Why would she, a well-to-do socialite, spend her time on a poor country boy who had only recently turned into a war hero?

"How do you take your tea, Renton?" Jane called out from the kitchen.

"With one spoon of sugar, if you please," Renton responded.

He heard a clattering from the kitchen as he drummed his fingers on his knees, nervously waiting for the tea to be served, and wondering what he could say to Jane. This was not a situation he had ever encountered before; never before was he ever invited over to a girl's house as an outing. It was strange he would feel strained and tense with her while with Eureka he was relaxed and calm.

"Here we are," Jane said as Renton eyed the tray.

It was ceramic with a floral pattern, holding a white china teapot and matching cups and saucers. Two cups carried the tea from which arose steam that gave off an enticing aroma to the both of them. It was simple but at the same time dignified, like so much else in this house and even Jane herself. Quite a stark contrast from how Renton characterized himself in this alien environment. She set the tray down and took one of the cups, grasping it by the handle with her dainty fingers and her pinky extended. Renton by contrast took his cup and held it normally, grasping the bowl of the cup rather than the handle like a mug.

"Bottoms up, I guess," Renton chuckled nervously as he gently sipped from the cup.

Jane laughed as she drank from hers and waited for Renton's reaction.

"Very good," he said smiling. "Just like when I traveled to London."

"That's imported tea from Britain, too. No store bought packs from around here."

"Certainly tastes like it…"

He took another drink as he eyed her, harkening an image of British aristocrats who sat in on the inauguration of a great sovereign, attended the banquets at Buckingham Palace and tripped the light fantastic at galas and balls day and night. She came from a world of power, prestige, and privilege. He came from a world of hard labor, endurance, and loss. For a moment, he realized how fundamentally different they were. Their life experiences, their ways of seeing the world, the environments they had been born and bred in, were so radically opposed to each other. They were different people from two separate worlds, but yet they still touched and spoke, like they were old friends.

"So about your friends at school…"

"Ah, yes," she said smiling, remembering her small contract with Renton. "To answer your question, your name is brought up a few times."

"In what context?" he pressed.

Jane sighed, knowing the true answer was much harder to tell, but Renton never wavered and communicated as much with his stern green eyes that seemed to see straight through her.

"Just tell me the truth, Jane. I won't think of you any less for it."

"Truth be told," Jane said contemplatively, "if it were not for your exploits in Russia, they wouldn't talk about you so highly. You've really made quite a name for yourself with all you did in Stalingrad."

Renton leaned his head back on the sofa, sighing as he looked up to the ceiling, spotting a fleur-de-lis pattern surrounding the chandelier. Even the ceiling betrayed the high nature of this place, and further called to his attention just how small he was compared to this.

"Sometimes I wonder if I should even have gone, with all the notoriety it's gotten me. Many days I get tired of all the attention."

"Don't talk like that, Renton. You said yourself that you did what you felt was the right thing. And I can tell you the others have nothing but respect towards you for it. But if they ever have a harsh word, I am always the first to your defense."

"I thank you, Jane. But do the others really hate me that much?"

"They hardly hate you," Jane protested. "But I suppose they find you…unapproachable."

Renton turned to her, quizzically.

"You hardly ever talk to anyone outside me or your friends. You don't go out often unless your friends ask you to come. And…well…honestly, you're very gloomy most days. In fact, some of them are frightened by you."

Renton laughed as he drank again. The thought was so ironic considering what he had to face with himself day after day.

"I have to battle with my own demons on a daily basis…and they think _I'm_ frightening."

"As much as I hate to admit it, Renton, they are right about some of those things. You're quite the hermit."

Renton turned to the ceiling again, contemplating the truth behind it. Yes he avoided others and put a wall around himself, but he did so much sparring with himself every day it seemed counterintuitive not to. He was the most solitary of his small corps of friends, even though ironically he was arguably the leader of the little crew. When he was with friends, he was often the sole voice of reason in a world of fools, much how he tried to make sense of a world that seemed to be inhabited by fools, sheep and tyrants.

"I have my reasons for it, Jane. That's all I can say."

Jane looked to him, and saw that his piercing green eyes were wandering much like how he wandered nowadays. Aimless, lacking in purpose, dazed, and perhaps even a little demented. That restless soul always seemed in search of something far greater than she or anyone else could give him, but she still strived for him, and still ran after him wherever he went. Why did she put herself out for him? Why did she spend her time reaching to him when he seemed in the pursuit of a grander universal truth?

"Renton, I am your friend. I deserve to know what's bothering you."

Renton's eyes seemed glazed and weary, trying desperately to grab onto the truth that seemed within his grasp and then just as quickly slipped away. That was his life story. Missed opportunities. Lost chances. Hardship. Taking on the weight of the world for the one he cared so deeply for, even more than he cared for Jane or any other friend he had in this town.

"Jane…I don't suppose you've ever been in love with someone?"

Jane was now struck silent. The boy sitting next to her who seemed the most unassuming, innocent and naive character when it came to matters of the heart, was confiding in her feelings of adoration to an unknown figure. Was it her? Was it Eureka? Was it another girl she didn't know of? All manner of assumptions and allegations whizzed through her head as Renton patiently awaited her answer.

He laughed, as if in on a joke unspoken between them.

"I know, it's strange, coming from someone who seems not to give a damn for it."

"I…I'm not really sure of how to answer that question, Renton. I have never felt that feeling of affection towards another person before."

Renton smiled, as if expecting this misfortune for him.

"Just my luck I suppose. I've been doing a lot of soul searching since I came back from Stalingrad, and I have yet to find a definite conclusion. It seems you are as lost on the concept as I am."

"Yes I suppose you could say that," she responded softly. "It is a new thing for a girl of my age to have yet experienced."

"Strange, you seemed to me the type that boys would be lining up to get a chance with. I guess looks are deceiving. You don't have any advice for me in my soul searching then, I suppose."

"Not really," she responded giggling. "I wasn't of age to be considered for a suitor, but I am still waiting for the right one to capture my heart."

Renton sighed, seeing this as a sign from God. This was a battle he had been fighting in his heart ever since he found Eureka again, and no matter who he turned to for advice, in the end it was a battle that he had to win by himself. It was he who had to decide the fate of his relationship with Eureka. It was he who ultimately had to decipher what he felt towards her. He had to judge for himself whether this was love he felt or not.

"Then I guess my soul searching continues. And I keep on being a hermit because of it. Sorry to disappoint you," Renton said with a wishful smile.

"It's quite alright, Renton. As long as we have you in our lives, I am sure everything will turn out well in the end."

"Maybe finding the answer will finally bring me back to you and the others. I guess I have to find out for myself."

Renton took another sip from his tea and then, as if he had willed it, the question that had tortured him from the day it was uttered was made known to him once more. That horrible, damnable, and yet important question he could not ignore, no matter how long, and would eventually have to answer. The pain that he felt with that question was so large it felt he was about to be crushed by it. He turned to Jane again and, calling to her deep ocean blue eyes, asked,

"Jane, can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course Renton. You can trust me with anything."

Renton inhaled deeply, and mentally readied himself to unleash this horrendous pain he had been feeling up to now out and into the open with her.

"Jane, when I first traveled to Stalingrad, Eureka was the closest friend I ever had in that city. She and I spent more time together than with anyone I ever met in my travels. One day, a few days before I was scheduled to leave the city, Eureka asked me something. She asked me a question that I have never been able to answer to this day."

"What was it that she asked?" Jane said curiously.

"She asked: if I was destined to stay in Russia forever, or if she was a citizen of my country, would she and I have fallen in love?"

Jane froze at the question unsure of what to say next. She couldn't help but feel a slight pang of hurt in her heart.

"I…I don't know what to say about a request like that."

A tear stood in his eye as the melancholy in his heart at reawakening such a painful and yet important memory.

"Believe me, I didn't know what to say either. I never gave an answer, and to this day I have left that question unanswered. But every day when I traveled back to Stalingrad, every day I fought in the streets and searched for her, that one little question kept coming back to me, and it still keeps coming back. And the fact that I still don't have an answer is agonizing for me."

Renton sighed heavily as he drank from his cup.

"I know that you're as inexperienced as me when it comes to love, Jane. But I never once in my 16 years of living thought that an emotion so beautiful as love can carry such a deep and horrendous pain as the kind I feel now."

"Yes I can imagine," she said quietly. "I do hope that you may find some peace when it comes to finally finding out what it means to be in love."

"Thank you for listening to me, Jane. The more days pass, the journey becomes that much harder for me. But talking to you about it makes it easier to bear."

"I am glad I can help, Renton. Would you like any more tea?"

Renton smiled at his friend.

"Certainly, thank you."

They talked on into the evening for what seemed like an eternity, but the sun eventually began to set and the time came for Renton to go back to the girl who waited for him back in his small house on the hill. They said their goodbyes and laughed at shared humors as he made his way to the door. Jane stopped him for a moment as he stood in the doorway, looking back to her entreating blue eyes, that seemed to cry out to him for something.

"Yes, Jane?"

With no chance to protest or question why, her lips met his in a sweet and chaste kiss that seemed to melt away his anguish and melancholy with a gentle, moist, and warm touch. His struggle with himself would not end this day, and he had a long road of introspection and contemplation ahead of him before he could reach a definite conclusion, but letting one person in on his private war was comforting. The thought of what it meant to love and what love truly was faded away, leaving only Jane's soft lips on his.

"Renton, if you ever need anything, you know who to look to."

"Thank you, Jane," he returned, heaving a heavy sigh. "It's going to be a long road and a hard-fought battle before I finally come to an answer about what I feel. But knowing you're there makes it so much more bearable for me."

Renton smiled and bid her goodbye as she watched him traverse over the cobblestone pathway before turning right and making his way back to his home. The wind whipped at the hem of his trench coat and through his ash blonde hair, his eyes still focused on the horizons and searching for the truth that drove him endlessly across the Russian steppes, over the waters of the Pacific and through the shadows of this little valley town. He had to find his truth, she thought. And perhaps she would see his truth benefit her as well, if God contented to smile upon them and will them as destined.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: One recurring theme that was never addressed strongly enough when I first wrote the saga was Renton's combat fatigue, or "post-traumatic stress disorder" as we would call it today. Mostly it came out in the form of Renton being sullen, weary, and introverted. But if anything, that's just what worsens PTSD, and it never really adequately showed how Renton was suffering from the effects of combat. So I came up with the idea of nightmares, and how he is able to get through each night, which you will see now.**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_He ran recklessly across the street to a nearby cafe with a caved-in roof. The fire seemed to be coming from all sides, and they were irrevocably pinned. The enemy that faced them surely outnumbered them ten to one! Renton sat huddled beneath a window, struggling with what to do as Anatole fired his DP machine gun into the advancing enemy. _

"_They're everywhere! We can't hold them!"_

_Renton turned inward and called to the red-headed radio operator, frantically calling for the rest of the company to come save them._

"_Any word from Sakharova?"_

"_I'm not getting anything, sir! The jamming is too strong!"_

"_Keep trying! We need support!"_

_Petya fired several rounds from his PPSh-41 into a group of three Germans that tried to force their way into the cafe. They all fell dead just as they reached the door. He called out to Renton in desperation as he scrounged his person for a new magazine._

"_I'm running low on ammo here…"_

"_Make every shot count!" Renton yelled over the cacophonous gunfire. "Don't let any of them in!"_

_To lead by example, Renton quickly jumped up and got a shot off from his Mosin-Nagant, which landed right between the eyes of a German aiming down his Kar98k. He just as quickly ducked down to avoid the incoming fire from the approaching enemy, which was now fast closing in. Just then, a door to the right of him flung wide open and a gang of Germans stormed in. Renton quickly charged the group and managed to stab one German in the heart with his bayonet before clubbing the other. _

_He brought his rifle down on the third, assuming he would get another hit. However, such hopes were dashed when the German, a scruffy man in his twenties bundled tightly for the winter, blocked him with a single swift move of his Kar98k. _

_What…?_

_The German charged him and forced him back further into the cafe. Now the tables were turned as this German fought him tooth and nail, never ceasing in his attacks as if his life depended on killing this one soldier in a battle that was already lost. Slowly, the cafe faded away, leaving them both fighting in a black void. Anatole, Petya, the radio operator, all of them disappeared like specters dissolving into the mist. Renton called out, to anyone now, desperately seeking assistance in this enemy that was proving too strong even for him._

"_Petya! Natasha! Anatole! Someone help me!"_

_Then a female voice responded, British in origin, and addressed him directly._

"_What can a person do when he has seen such tragedy, Renton? Does he accept his fate and move on…or does he let it haunt him forever?"_

_Renton blocked another attack by the German and both of them struggled, as Renton looked around to ascertain where that voice was coming from._

"_Jane? Where are you? Help me, please!"_

"_There is no one who can help you now, Thurston!" a menacing familiar voice called._

_Renton's heart leapt into his throat, as he recognized that voice instantly. No, it couldn't be! It was impossible! Not him, please, dear God, not him!_

_He turned to face the German, only to find the German had been replaced by Ilya Pavlovich Chertov. He wore a new brown uniform with blue riding pants, and looked to bear newly acquired power, power he was all too ready to use. He brandished a gleaming sword with a brass hilt that clashed with the stock of Renton's rifle. He shook his head in denial of the sight before him as the pupils in his eyes contracted in shock. No, it could not be Chertov! Not when he had just gotten rid of him! Not when he had thrown him out of his life for good!_

"_You're not real…you can't be…"_

"_There's no escape for you this time, Thurston!"_

_Chertov kneed him hard in the stomach and sent him sliding onto the floor, whatever floor existed in this dark void. Renton again blocked Chertov's attack, now pinned on the ground and struggling to hold him. He looked around for something, anything, that could aid him in this fight he was on the verge of losing. There was nothing. _

_Then, he heard another voice, one that was so close and dear to him. But the words this voice uttered were stinging, more painful than any battle wound he ever received. They were words that had plagued him since the day he first left Stalingrad all those years ago._

"_Rentoshka, if you were destined to stay in Russia forever, or if I was a citizen of your country, would you and I have fallen in love?"_

_Renton looked back up to Chertov and saw over his shoulder, the lovely image of Eureka. The one girl in his life he would always fight for, die for, sacrifice everything for. She now stood at 15, and looked to him with the most charming and beautiful smile he had ever seen. Every inch of her visage seemed to say, "I love you."_

_The one instant his eyes gazed on her, Chertov broke through his defense, and slashed his wrists. Renton cried in searing pain as Chertov raised his sword up, chuckling menacingly._

"_Goodbye, Renton Ivanovich Thurston."_

_He brought his sword down._

**January 30****th****, 1943**

**Bellforest, California, USA**

Renton woke up with a short, sharp scream of terror.

Renton was alone in his living room. All the lights were out, the only illumination given was coming from the bright moon outside in the wintry night sky. He sat on his couch wrapped up in his blanket, as he had given his bed up for Eureka. Sweat covered his body, as if he had just taken a visit to the tropics, and he was panting heavily, heaving in deep breaths as if in fear of his life being snatched away.

He sat up, and immediately buried his face in his hands. This had been a nightly occurrence; ever since he left Stalingrad with her, these dreams had been plaguing him. They were always dreams involving the same things. Combat. Pain. Suffering. Death. Things he lived through in Stalingrad, and things he was trying so desperately to forget. Some memories, however, are not easily forgotten. Some wounds never heal.

He _had_ to move on, he scolded himself. That time of his life was over now, and it was a life he would rather never again revisit. He had to be strong for Eureka, who was counting on him to help her adjust to this new way of life. He was her guide, her one anchor and protector. Renton could not afford to be marred in this pattern of nightmares, visions of torment, and feelings of immense pain. Maybe a cold glass of water would aid him in getting back to sleep. He stood up and walked around uneasily, not truly knowing which direction to go in.

His first instinct was to see if Eureka was alright. Surely his scream would have woken her up. Renton stumbled his way across the living room and into the small hallway, leaning on the walls for support and a sense of orientation. After shuffling a few rods, he felt the oak wood of a door frame, and his hand came to rest on the doorknob. He gently turned it and peered into his room, now owned by her.

Eureka lay fast asleep, turned away from him and wrapped in the white sheets of the bed. Not a sound came from her. There was only the silent glowing of moonlight that shone through the windows and onto her bed like she was a spirit of the divine, descended from Paradise and finding respite in the trappings of mortals. Renton smiled, noting how she was so beautiful and serene even in sleep. He remembered how often they took naps together as children, back before the war tore them apart and turned the world upside down. Dear Eureka. So much had changed between them since then.

As he quietly shut the door and made his way towards the kitchen for a glass of water, he recounted how their relationship stood. Much like she was, their relationship seemed sleeping. Dormant. Awaiting the right time to reveal itself. Still, he struggled with just what he felt toward her. Surely they were more than simply friends now. To continue that facade would be laughable. But the question remained: what was between them, keeping them back?

Even in times of consolation and loss, he felt walled off from her, perhaps by his own volition. He felt confused and conflicted with just what he felt towards her. As his feet shuffled across the marble floor of the kitchen, he searched the cupboards for a glass while he searched through his consciousness of all the things he felt about Eureka.

His best friend.

His one confidante.

His raison d'être for all his endurance of battle.

And now, his fellow housemate.

Thinking back over it, he brought her here on impulse, because she requested him to do so. What else could he do? Her home was practically destroyed, her family was starving, and she practically lived a prisoner's life. What kind of person would he have been to refuse her sincere, heartfelt plea of assistance in her greatest hour of need? So he took her with him, without any regard of the consequences or the repercussions that would follow. He did it out of a sense of duty to her. As her friend. As one human to another.

As a lover?

He had no answer to that. And it drove him insane coming up with an answer as he turned on the water faucet. That was one last battle in this long campaign he had to eventually fight, and win. No matter the answer he came to, it had to be confronted and dealt with, lest he torture himself with not knowing what is in his own heart.

Renton threw his head back as he downed the cold water. It parched his dry throat and instantly gave him the drowsiness he needed to get back to sleep. He set the glass down on the counter and turned around to go back to his couch when he was confronted with a familiar figure.

Eureka.

She wore her white frilled nightgown with long sleeves. Her dark brown hair flowed over her shoulders like a waterfall and her snowy grey eyes shined in the night like fireflies. The eyes betrayed her concern and fear for her friend, the closest and only one she had in this world.

"Renton?" she said quietly, not wanting to wake up anyone else in the house.

"Eureka, what are you doing up?" Renton asked, despite the answer being obvious. "It's late."

"I heard a scream. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Eureka," he equivocated, trying not to worry her. "Nothing to worry about."

He moved to go back to his couch but Eureka caught him by the wrist.

"I know something is bothering you."

"It's nothing, Eureka. I swear."

He tried to go, but Eureka refused to let him leave her. She pulled him gently to her, trying her best to reach out to her reserved, solitary friend. He always did this. He always acted like he hid something from her, something he wanted no one to see or know. Why couldn't he just be honest with her for once?

"Don't shut me out, Rentoshka," she entreated, in a gentle plea. "Let me help you."

Renton sighed, knowing that it would not do him any good to hide what was weighing so heavily on him.

"I had a nightmare. About Stalingrad…"

"A nightmare?"

Renton nodded and began to explain to her what had come to pass in his subconscious. It was a painful and arduous vision to divulge, but it was one that he needed off his chest, regardless. Perhaps Eureka had a comforting word or a piece of advice to give him and help him move on more quickly from this.

"We were surrounded. The Germans were coming from all sides, and we didn't have any chance for relief. They broke through, and I started fighting one of them."

"What happened then?" Eureka asked, as she moved her hand to gently grip his arm.

"Suddenly, I wasn't in Stalingrad anymore. I was just fighting this German. I was all alone, calling for help from anyone. But then, I looked and saw that I wasn't fighting a German anymore…"

Renton looked away, not wanting to burden Eureka with a bad memory from the past. She shouldn't know what he saw, lest it infect her with the fear he felt now.

"Renton," Eureka begged, "please tell me what happened."

"I'm just scared…"

"Don't be," she cooed, gently caressing his cheek. "I'm your friend. You can tell me anything that's bothering you; you know that."

Renton took her hand in his, smiling. He had absolute certainty she was an angel transplanted in the callous mortal world. Surely, she must be, if she was so unafraid of any evil that might come from this dreadful nightmare. She had the courage of a soldier to face this so resolutely.

"…I was suddenly fighting Chertov," he finished.

At that, he felt her hand slip. To hear that name, the name of the man who had almost stopped them in their tracks, who had been responsible for the harrowing nature of their escape, came as a shock to her. Why wouldn't it? They both thought Chertov was gone, and out of their lives forever. Yet this man that was always Renton's ire and Eureka's misery still lingered, even in his dreams? The thought was simply unreal to even contemplate.

"I-Ilya Chertov?" she breathed.

"The same. The one I thought was gone forever."

There was a pause, and Renton could almost smell the fear on her, as he watched the color drain from her face and her grey eyes quiver with trepidation. Surely, this could not be. Chertov was gone. He was left behind, with no chance of ever seeing his revenge fulfilled. Destined to be forgotten and burdened with his failure.

"How did the fight end?" she asked.

Renton hesitated to tell her, but he feared leaving her in the dark would only cause her more anxiety.

"He knocked me down. He was about to kill me."

"But something happened?"

Renton breathed heavily, resting his head against hers, trying to find some sense of comfort and knowing that this was not the reality to come. It couldn't be, not so soon after they had finally found peace and joy with being reunited at last. Surely this was merely the effects of combat, the visions that haunt a soldier and not a vision of the future. Surely there was reason to hope that they could live in peace together unmolested by the likes of Chertov.

"I saw you…" he whispered to her, fearfully. "I saw you behind him, smiling at me. Then just before he killed me, I woke up."

Eureka withheld words for a moment, as if in a loss of what to say. What _could_ she say to someone who was struggling to move on? What words could help Renton put the past behind him? How could she help him shut away all the horrors he had seen in trying to save her? Her hands joined his, beckoning him to stay and to be consoled.

"It was just a dream…" she attempted to say.

Sadly such visions don't fly by carelessly like a paper bag before the strong autumn breeze.

"I don't want it to become real!" Renton countered, his voice cracking with anxiety. "I don't want to think about Stalingrad or Chertov anymore! All I want is to move on…"

"But you can, Rentoshka. You just have to try."

"Then tell me what I have to do."

Eureka nuzzled him gently, nose to nose. She smiled brightly as if to impart some sense of hope in the forlorn and tortured soul that stood before him. She whispered kind and hopeful words to him.

"Live on. Go about your life. Go to school and to work. Go out with your friends. And if you ever feel lost, need a word of comfort, or just a shoulder to lean on…come to me."

Eureka rested her head on his shoulder as she brought her arms around him, holding him in a tender, loving embrace. Like so many young boys who skipped merrily off to war, he never once thought he would have to witness what he did on the battlefield. But the fact he cast aside all, his home, his safety, his comfort, just so he could find her and know what he could do for her, made her love him all the more. His road to recovery would be a long, arduous and painful one, but as long as she was in his world, he had no reason to fear. Why should he? He had done everything he had in his power to achieve, and more. He accomplished far much more than any normal person would hope to in a short span of time. He had much to be proud of. What he endeavored and suffered was for a greater cause, a cause that stood before him and held him tightly.

Slowly, he released his hands from hers and brought them to rest on her light, delicate shoulders, pulling her close to him ever so gently. Surely, he thought to himself, there had to be a God in this world, to have created a human so loving and so kindly as her. The fact she still held him close, still called him friend, still could bear a smile in the face of all this horror was proof there was some divine machination behind this mortal world.

"You're a true friend, Eurekasha. Thank you."

"I'll always be here for you, Renton. Don't ever forget that."

Eureka planted a quick kiss on him, and whispered, her words hot in his ear.

"Come to bed with me."

Renton looked to her with surprise in his eyes. How could she be so comfortable with that prospect?

"Eureka…"

"It'll help you get through the night."

"Are you—?"

She stopped him midsentence by placing one finger on his lips.

"Just trust me."

Renton smiled, and Eureka led him into his bedroom and gently pushed him onto the mattress. She lay down next to him, looking at him with sincere and glimmering grey eyes. It didn't take long for them to fall back to sleep, and the only dreams that filled Renton's head were of the girl lying next to him.

»»»»»

**February 2****nd****, 1943**

**Northern Stalingrad, USSR**

The Germans were finished. The 6th Army under Field Marshal Paulus had collapsed from starvation, the cold and disease. Operation Ring had begun on January 10th by the Soviets, with the intent of destroying all German resistance in Stalingrad once and for all. The offensives had crushed the German positions to an area fifteen miles long and nine miles wide. On January 22nd, the Russian forces from the west linked up with the survivors of Lieutenant General Vasili Chuikov's 62nd Army still fighting in Stalingrad, thus splitting the German 6th Army in two. With no hope of relief or resupply, Friedrich Paulus and his 6th Army could do no more.

Word had been received from units in the south that Paulus and all troops in the southern sector had surrendered. There was much rejoice among the men and women of First Company but no word had come from the northern sector of the line, on which they now occupied. If the northern sector did not surrender, it would mean more fighting. But most soldiers knew that it was too late for the fascists trapped in the city. If they did indeed continue to fight on, the result would be the same.

Much had changed since Renton left. Vladimir somehow managed to find an officer willing to take on the role of commander of First Company, the men and women Renton led in his valiant five day stint. He found it in Ken-Goh Fyodorev, the bright and skilled platoon leader who had been Renton's right hand man during his short stay. Petya Sokolov had been promoted to Junior Lieutenant and took over command of his old platoon, with Natasha Badanova bumped up to Junior Sergeant to cover for Petya's squad.

They still received letters from Renton. He talked often of his internal battles day after day, which sounded as fierce as the fighting he partook in alongside them in the frozen streets. He recounted in myriad words what was going on in his heart now, and turned to all of them for desperately needed advice.

Petya and Natasha chose to write him with this in mind, seeing how they knew already what he was experiencing; it was love for another, a feeling they had been acquainted with for more than three years now. They had to make him understand that now, if things were to progress between him and Eureka.

Today however, it was the least of their concerns as they along with the rest of First Company sat in their foxholes, dug on an open stretch of field that was once a large park before the war tore it down. Petya tried to get some much needed sleep while Natasha peered through her sniper scope, continuously watching the line for any German fool enough to waltz out into the open. Most of the squad was spread out on their left and right, while Anatole, their kind friend and joking machine gunner, manned a position further up front from the others. However he was asleep at the trigger as well, unequivocally tired from months of fighting and desperately looking for some rest, confident the battle was at its end.

Her rifle scanned the horizon time after time like a comb weeding out dirt and grime from matted hair. There was not a living thing to be found in her field of vision and there was not much to look at in terms of landscape. Most she could see were buildings on the other side of the park ruined to their foundations and little more than mountains of debris and rubble. The home she and her Petya along with everyone else close to them had lived for all their lives was practically wiped off the map. So much had been lost in this battle, and it was clear that whenever the Germans did give in, it would be a long time in coming before the city would regain its former face. This battle would not be the end of their struggles to drive out the fascist invaders. She reasoned it would be years before they could finally return home proud of victory.

She looked to Petya, sleeping on the other side of their foxhole, clutching his Mosin-Nagant rifle tightly like a lover. His steel helmet was gone, replaced instead with a fur hat typical of the winter uniform. His sandy blonde hair had grown longer with no chance to trim it or even comb it. He looked peaceful as he slept, as if the end of the war had come already.

"Petya?"

He stirred slightly, receptive to his fiancée calling for his name. She sighed, wishing that he was awake so she could pour out her feelings to him. One of the reasons she always asked him to go with her on sniping missions was not just for more time to be intimate but time to open up and share problems facing them that particular day. Petya always had a kind word and a helpful piece of advice for her, and always provided enough support for her to get through the long and arduous missions.

She went back to scouring the horizon for targets, but no German would dare enter the open and exposed space. Anyone who did must have a death wish.

She spied one, walking along the opposite side of the open field, looking to be in a daze. He had not shaven in a while and his uniform was ragged and dirty, evidence that this particular German had not felt clean clothes or even a refreshing bath in a long time. She spied a ring on the German's finger, exposed by his glove. He was a married man, at the destination of life that she and Petya were heading towards. She couldn't help but feel sorry for this man who might not ever see his family in this cold and desolate place where the only guarantee was death.

She looked at the rank indicated on his shoulder strap: a mere foot soldier, not even worth her bullets. His life had a meaning to it, and loved ones awaiting him at war's end. She let him move on quietly.

"You're a long way from home, Fritz."

Another German wandered into her vision, this time an officer, as evidenced by his peaked cap and the rank on his shoulder straps. His uniform was not in any better condition than the German before him, and he seemed frazzled and beyond all hope. His uneasy steps betrayed his lack of purpose and loss of will. His eyes seemed to beg for an end to his life.

Natasha was quick in putting a premature end to his misery.

The rifle spoke with a crack, and put a bullet through the officer's temple. He fell to the ground face first as his peaked cap was knocked off. The snow around him turned blood red as the essential liquid of life slowly drained out of his lifeless corpse.

"Sweet dreams, fascist," she said quietly as she retracted the bolt and brought a new round into the chamber.

The gunshot had woken up Petya with a jolt, but it did not elicit any notice from Natasha. Petya covered his mouth as he yawned tiredly, and eyed his fiancée from behind. She was absorbed in her sniper's work, tending to the grim business of dealing out death to any fool who entered her field of vision. He smirked, seeing as an opportune time to play a joke on her, as he so often liked to do. He probably would get a scolding from Natasha afterward, but she knew as well as he that there was no attack or significant enemy movement to their front. Rumor told that they might even surrender today.

She took no notice to him as he slinked up behind her, eyeing her lower extremities as the target for his prank. He realized, through looking at her, she had quite the womanly figure for a girl of almost 17. Her shoulders had grown out broader, and her hips had grown in width while her waist remained slender and trim. He had had ample opportunity to explore every inch of her body many a night when passion overtook them, and his experiences with her confirmed she had matured, not just in mind but in body.

His smirk widened as he reached his thumb and forefinger to her plump and round buttocks and promptly pinched there, eliciting a yelp of surprise from Natasha.

"OOH!"

She turned and found her culprit in this act of mischief, falling back laughing.

"You cheeky devil," Natasha said with a seductive look in her eyes.

"Your fault you were open to a surprise attack," Petya retorted.

Natasha laughed and looked back to her front, refocusing her scope. Once again, nothing to look at. Petya sat up next to her and scanned the front with his field glasses. Not a soul in sight. Perhaps the Germans had all died from the cold and the battle was already over. It would be wonderful if it really was the case, but both of them knew it wasn't, and it may still be weeks before the last German turns in. However both realized they could not last out much longer.

What happened here in their old home was not the first thing on their minds, but rather what would come in the wake of this battle. They would have to leave their city so soon after reuniting with it and all the people closest to their hearts. There would be more battles in faraway places that might take them as far as Germany itself. It would be many years before they could set foot in this place again, and it would be many more years before this city was rebuilt.

"Anything out there?" Petya asked.

"No," Natasha returned with a exasperated sigh. "What about you?"

"Nothing."

"What time is it?"

Petya looked at his wristwatch.

"About 8:30. Why?"

"Sometimes I wonder why Ken-Goh bothers waking us up every morning like there's going to be an attack. He knows as well as anyone the Germans are finished here."

"Renton would never dare wake us up so early."

"I think that's more because he hates disturbing us…" Natasha countered, smirking.

Petya laughed, recounting a moment when Renton walked in on them while they were in bed together. He saw nothing of value but the sight of them in the same bed must have left him red in the face; his demeanor that day seemed agitated enough.

"Speaking of which," Petya mused, turning over to Natasha who was still peering through her scope, "Did Renton write anything today?"

"He was talking about the question Eureka asked him that day. You know the one."

"Oh that one," Petya said knowingly. "He never could come up with an answer to that one, could he?"

"He's really in pain over that, Petya," Natasha replied, obviously feeling the pain of her faraway friend. "He couldn't come up with an answer then and it's been driving him crazy ever since."

"That's a question he has to answer by himself, though," Petya returned, "he has to decide for himself what he feels to Eureka."

"Still, it doesn't mean he can't get some help in the right direction."

Petya sighed and slid back to the bottom of their foxhole wondering what they could say to their pining friend. He remembered back to when he came out to Natasha, all those years ago when they were still children at play. He found her crying on the foot of the large hill that overlooked this city, finding she felt abandoned by Renton as he spent his final days in Russia with Eureka, and lamenting how she could never find someone who loves her. Petya took the opportunity and said to her that there was one person in the world who loved her more than anyone: him.

From that day on, they were all but inseparable, and Natasha found that she genuinely loved Petya as well, not just because he took Renton's place. He paid her all the attention a boy could give to a girl, he treated her kinder than anyone she knew, and was always the first to her defense if someone spoke an ill word or threatened her in deed.

They deeply cared for each other, much like how Renton and Eureka did. The difference between them was Natasha and Petya had acknowledged it long ago. Renton and Eureka had yet to come to such an understanding; theirs was a sleeping love, unknown to both of them and waiting to be awakened. They had to make Renton see somehow just what it was he felt…or at least lead him in the right direction.

"I think I have something…"

He found a scrap of paper and wrote some of his thoughts down.

_Dear Renton,_

_Your recent letter has clued me in to what is troubling you. I was once in your position and I know exactly what it feels like. The truth is I was in love and just didn't know it. I had much thinking and reflecting to do as you do every day, and what I had to consider was how being around Natasha made me feel. I felt my best days were ahead of me when I was with her. I felt the rest of the world didn't matter and only she did. She made me feel comfortable with myself and with life. If I felt I needed comfort and a caring word, I would turn to her. I can only tell you that those are all clear signs that you're in love._

At 8:40 in the morning, February 3rd, 1943, two wires on the hands of a clock touched.

"I see something!" Natasha said looking through her sniper scope.

Petya immediately set aside his work and sat up next to Natasha, grabbing his Mosin-Nagant and cocking it, ready for an impending attack.

"What is it?" Petya asked.

"It's…"

She almost couldn't believe her eyes. Out of foxholes, apartments, office buildings, and small trenches, there came out German soldiers. They didn't look like they were coming out for a fight. In fact, she spotted one waving a tattered white flag.

"I can't believe it…" Natasha whispered, astonished and confounded by what she saw through her scope.

"What is it? What do you see?" Petya asked anxiously, his grip on the rifle tightening.

"It's…the fascists…they have a white flag…"

"You can't mean that…!"

Then they heard a call from the Germans approaching.

"Nicht schiße! Nicht schiße! Wir ergeben uns!" (A/N: Don't shoot! Don't shoot! We surrender!)

Petya and Natasha's eyes widened. They uttered the words they had been wanting to hear for so long now, the words that would mean the end of this battle and the assurance of victory.

"They…they want to surrender…"

"COMRADE CAPTAIN!" Petya called.

Out came Ken-Goh dressed in a winter uniform to see what was wrong.

"What is it, Lieutenant Sokolov?" Ken-Goh inquired.

Petya pointed out to the oncoming droves of German soldiers. Ken-Goh's jaw dropped. They seemed to come on in the hundreds, no, in the thousands. Myriads upon myriads of weak, starving, and nearly dead Germans. It was almost unreal to him, to all of them. They had been fighting all these months, for more than half a year, and they thought they were facing an enemy that would fight to the death. But this? They looked to be dead already. These were not the faces of war. These were the faces of utter misery and privation.

"How should we proceed, comrade Captain?" Petya inquired.

"We accept their surrender. What else?"

Petya followed Ken-Goh out into the open field to receive the surrender of the German 6th Army, to end the Battle of Stalingrad.

Ken-Goh and the German commanding officer worked out the details as Petya eyed the men of the shattered 6th Army. It was a heart-wrenching sight to behold; the Germans looked terrible. They had no winter uniforms to speak of, never prepared for the harshness of the Russian winter. They were wearing all sorts of different mismatched clothing, making use out of what they could find or scavenge. Some even had ridiculous-looking straw shoes to keep warm. They were wrapped in tattered blankets and rags, and were unshaven, dirty, and louse-ridden. No matter who they were or where they came from, the faces on all of them were the same, all asking the same questions: how could it have come to this? Why did this happen? What could have happened that caused us to end up like this? How could we have been completely and totally crushed, and by our own methods? How could we have been so stupid not to realize what was going to happen?

He offered no answer to any of them, but only the damning silence that comes from a captor to his captives, from a victor to the defeated.

The details were laid out, the terms set, and the deal done. Ken-Goh ordered Petya to escort the Germans back to Battalion headquarters to sort out the full nature of the surrender with the Major, and Petya silently obliged with a sharp salute.

He motioned for the Germans to follow him and they all did in an endless stream down the road, the road to capitulation. The road to the turning point.

Natasha soon joined him in escorting the large detail of prisoners, and as they left the line, they heard the cry from their machine gunner and dear friend Anatole, calling to the others of his company in one clear resolute and boisterous voice:

"The Germans have surrendered! WE'VE WON THE BATTLE, COMRADES!"

At that revelation, the entire front line erupted in a cheerful uproar, as men and women emerged from their foxholes and rifle pits, tossing their hats in the air, grabbing each other and dancing in the snow. At last, at long last, a win had been scored for Motherland! Finally, a victory had been achieved over the fascists! Honor-filled and glorious victory! Victory! Victory! Victory!

Petya smiled as he continued to lead the Germans on and looked up to see the last clouds of winter begin to part allowing a ray of sun to burst through and shine down upon Natasha and him. God was smiling on them and the rest of the Russian people this day, as at last the myth of German invincibility had been shattered utterly. This was not the end by any means, and much harder battles would lie ahead. But Petya was not afraid and neither was Natasha; if they had each other to count on, they would survive and return home to the embrace of friends, family, and loved ones.

* * *

**Author's Note: I thought it only natural to conclude the chapter with the victory at Stalingrad, to provide a contrast to the nightmares Renton suffers with the reality on the front-lines. I do realize the plot is going rather slow at this point, but there is a reason behind it. It will become apparent at a chapter which is coming soon. Until then I encourage everyone to leave a review, even if it is criticism, as it will greatly help me. And if you haven't already done so, be sure to alert this story so you can better follow it.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Writing the original part, Eureka never went to school with Renton. She always stayed home, waiting for Renton to come back home from class, work, church, what have you. However, being cooped up in the house doesn't really help her integrate into American society, which she has already started to do thanks to Anemone taking her out shopping. So I got the idea of Renton shadowing her while going to school, which is something I did for newcomers to my high school occasionally. And we get to see Eureka and Jane meet each other for the first time. Fun times.**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**February 6****th****, 1943**

**Bellforest, California**

The victory at Stalingrad proved to be a moment of joyous celebration for all in his small town. Many of the citizens in this small hamlet were immigrants from Russia, most of whom had fled in the aftermath of the devastating civil war following the Revolution. To hear that at last a devastating blow had been cast against the Germans in their former motherland was cause for much rejoice. The local militia, comprised mostly of ethnic Russians, staged a parade down the main boulevard through their town all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge the following day, receiving fanfare and congratulations from Russian and non-Russian alike.

Renton and Eureka had been privy to the festivities and it was a chance to be with each other and enjoy each other's company in the midst of celebration. Eureka was particularly enthused, of course knowing that her home had been saved from the rule of Germany, but both knew that it would be many years before the city was fit to be inhabited again.

The day after, things returned to normal and a silence possessed both of them, as each waited for the other to make a move. Renton searched endlessly for an answer to what he felt in his heart, and why he hesitated so much to say everything he had been meaning to tell her. He pondered for a way to come closer to the answer he was looking for. Much of this soul-searching went on while on his own either at his work or in school or wandering aimlessly through the small town.

Work had just ended and the pharmacy had closed for the day, but he didn't feel like heading home just yet. He didn't know what he wanted to say to her some days, and knowing that he still could not answer was all the more painful to him. He took a left turn out of the pharmacy where he worked and trotted in the direction of downtown towards a soda shop near the town square.

It was a small place where his friends and classmates often gathered after school and on select weekends, where stories were swapped and friends were made, where hearts were tied together and broken apart. He knew the staff and most of the workers since he often came there in times when he needed to "drown his sorrows" as he liked to put it. The staff catered to him and consoled him with a fresh hot meal, a cold soothing drink, and many a waiter with a kind and caring word. It was one of his special places where he could go to think in relative isolation and reflect in relative peace.

The bells on the door jingled as he opened the glass door and was greeted by the soft melody of a jukebox in the corner of the room, playing a lilting gentle tune. He looked to see a waiter wearing the customary uniform, wiping down the marble tabletop bar at the front. He slipped in and went to his right towards a circular booth in the corner, his usual spot. The soda shop was unusually quiet, sans the sparse chatter of people in booths and at tables he passed by. At times he could recognize the faces of some who sat there. Many were classmates and acquaintances from school, but no one with whom he shared a deep bond with. No one who he could call "true friend."

No one like Eureka.

He sighed at the name of his beloved and his despair as he seated himself in the booth, waiting to be attended to. Why did the name of the girl he had sacrificed everything for come to bear the feelings of joy and of sorrow? Why couldn't he just sort out his heart and realize what he felt towards her? What was holding him back?

"Ah, Thurston. It's been a while since your last visit. We were beginnin' to think you'd abandoned us!"

He looked up and saw the bright smiling face of one of the employees at the soda shop. A brown-haired, brown-eyed waiter in his early 20s, this man and Renton had a stable friendship that had lasted as long as Renton had been coming to this little place. He had been Renton's waiter almost every time he came to visit, and Renton always made note to pay his kindness with a generous tip.

"Hap. I was starting to think much of the same. I just had a lot on my mind lately."

"Then let's get a load off that mind. You want the usual?"

"Sure. And bring me a glass of water would you?"

"You got it, kid."

He popped open the buttons on his trench coat, revealing his long white dress shirt and red necktie, the latter required for his work. He wasted no time in unbuttoning his collar and loosening the tie, breathing a sigh of relief as he leaned his head back, staring up at the white tiled ceiling and eyeing a fan hovering above him, and he drifted off back to his musings for a short moment before being interrupted by the calling of his name once more.

"Renton!"

Renton raised his head to see his friend James "Moondoggie" Emerson approaching him from the entrance of the soda shop. He was quietly joyous to see him, since he had not spoken to him or to his other friends like Matthieu for some time now.

"Doggie. Good to see you."

Moondoggie and Renton shook hands as Moondoggie sat next to him in the booth, obviously happy at last to have found his friend somewhere other than the library or at home.

"I thought you had retreated to your cave, never to see the light of day again!" Moondoggie joked.

"I've just been doing a lot of soul searching, I guess you could say," Renton returned, his voice heavy and foreboding.

"Soul searching?" Moondoggie laughed, adjusting his glasses. "I never thought you were the kind to go all philosophical. What truth are you running after, Plato?"

"Not that kind of soul searching, Einstein," Renton joked back. "More of a personal kind…the kind involving a certain lady in my house."

"Oh, so it's about Eureka, huh?"

"The same."

He sighed heavily as Hap brought him his tall glass of ice cold water from which he immediately took two large gulps.

"Have you ever been in love, Doggie?"

"Can't say I have. You think you love her?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Moondoggie wiped his glasses, trying to search through the depth of Renton's strong green eyes, piercing and seeing through all. Just by looking at him he could tell Renton had traveled a great distance and spent many a day questioning just what was in his heart. He was a man that could not be toyed or trifled with. This was the Renton he had been familiar for as long as they had been friends. Renton had grown aloof and distant from the world and always had a reason to brood and contemplate, even if the reason was undisclosed. In contrast, the object of his affections, Eureka, was a mysterious figure all her own, since only Anemone and Dominic had met her out of his small ring of friends. He talked about her often to his small band of followers but he never dared take her out into the world for fear of the repercussions.

"Y'know," Moondoggie remarked, "you've talked about her a lot, but the others have never met her."

"Dom and Anemone have."

"I'm talkin' about us. Me, Larry and Don. It'd be nice to put a face to all those glamorous words you shower on her, huh?"

Renton raised his head to look him in his bespectacled eyes and offer an answer but Hap came by again and offered him his food.

"There you are, Thurston, Mushroom and Swiss with fries. Hope you like it. The cook made it special."

"Tell him thank you," Renton laughed.

"Say Emerson, you want somethin' to eat too?"

"No thank you," Moondoggie replied. "Just a water will be sufficient."

"Suit yourself, Emerson. How's that burger, Thurston?"

"Very good, as always," Renton laughed as he swallowed a bite, giving Hap the thumbs-up.

"Glad to hear it Thurston, and good to have ya back."

He gave an affirmative nod and Hap left them to their discussion of the issue of Eureka meeting them all.

"Under what circumstances are you proposing to meet her?"

"How about she come to school on Monday? She can meet everyone then."

Renton thought for a moment, wondering how the others would treat her at school. There might be a stigma carried by her if she came to school with him, as others might see her as his "prize" taken from the battlefield.

"I don't want people to get the wrong idea of us, Doggie."

"Hey, they won't as long as you explain it to us."

"Still, I don't like taking chances."

Moondoggie laughed and joking punched Renton in the shoulder, taking note of his hypocrisy.

"That's funny, comin' from the guy who traveled all the way to Stalingrad and back to save her."

"It's not the same, Doggie…"

"I don't see any difference. If you can fight your way through an army of Germans to find her, you can watch her back in school just fine."

Renton took another gulp from his water, weighing the options in his head. There couldn't be any real harm in taking her to school with him; it'd be a good chance for her to integrate and maybe make a few friends. She could at least see what his life at school was like, provided the idea didn't bore her to tears. Of course for all he knew she was as hesitant to the idea of going to school as he was.

Every day he went to school since he came back he felt isolated from all and alone in the world, like no one could understand what demons he had to fight and what nightmares he had slept through. If Eureka was with him at school it might ease the pain and loneliness he felt day after day. He would make as much known to her when he eventually proposed the idea to her. With that he consented.

"I can see if she wants to."

"There," Moondoggie laughed, "now was that so hard?"

"If anything happens to her or if any of you poke fun you'll have me to deal with."

"Take it easy, pal. I'm not ready to get on your bad side yet."

They continued to talk for an hour, learning what had happened in the weeks that had passed, and Renton opening the door to the world one small crack. The two friends eventually bid each other goodbye and he went back home to be greeted by Eureka. He wasted no time in forwarding the idea.

"Where were you all this time? Did you have to stay at the pharmacy for extra work?" Eureka asked, obviously taking notice of his tardiness.

"I was just at the diner, talking to a friend," he replied matter-of-factly, as he removed his trench coat and hung it on the rack.

"What about?" she pressed, still not satisfied.

Renton paused as he kicked off his shoes and wondered what the best way to phrase the proposal to her would be. He breathed deeply and told her the truth, as she deserved no less.

"My friends want to meet you."

Eureka smiled, interested at the prospect.

"You mean your other friends besides Anemone and Dominic?"

"Yes. They're all very interested to see you."

"So," Eureka chuckled, pushing back her long brown hair with her delicate hand, "you talk about me that much, do you?"

Renton blushed, knowing himself how often he talked about her and how much he sung praises and painted glittering pictures of her to his significant others.

"Are you angry?"

"Not at all, Rentoshka," Eureka reassured him, laughing lightheartedly. "I'd love to meet them all."

Renton's spirits perked up and saw this as the right opportunity to pose the question.

"Then how about you come to school with me on Monday? I'll introduce you to everyone."

Eureka's expression dampened, not so much by disappointment as she was overcome by nervousness. Living in Renton's home was one thing but to spend a day at his school? To be a spectacle for everyone to see like an exhibit in a museum? To potentially be laughed at and ridiculed like a freak at a circus show? Needless to say she was not as forthcoming to that idea.

"To your school? And…be with the other students?"

"Yeah," he said unassumingly, seeing nothing wrong with that prospect.

"But what if they don't like me?" she said worriedly.

Renton laughed at the girl's question, leaving Eureka more confused than ever.

"What's wrong?"

"You're worried not because you'll be in a building full of strangers, but because you think they won't approve of you."

"Renton, you can't blame me for fearing that," she said, scowling slightly.

"I can vouch they are good people, Eurekasha. And if even one of them tries to hurt you, I'll punch them out."

Eureka giggled at the thought of him coming to fisticuffs with someone.

"Oh, I'll do it," Renton assured her, raising his hand and curling his fingers inward. "With this fist."

"Do you mean that, Renton?"

"I mean it as much as I promised to bring you here. If anyone tries to hurt you, even if it is my own friend, I won't hesitate."

Eureka of course felt some reassurance that Renton had her back if anyone tried to threaten her while at his school, but was still concerned about something else, something much closer to her heart and more pressing in her mind than it seemed in Renton's.

"…w-what if they…see us the wrong way?" she asked hesitantly.

"Let them think what they want. You and I know the truth."

Truth…just what truth did he mean? The truth of their relationship? The truth of their feelings? Such truths were ones Renton grappled with every day and Eureka sorted out but had not openly admitted. What truth was there to the two of them, both victims of a war that dragged everyone further into hell, both long lost friends now finally reunited after four long years of separation? Such truth was known, but only in relation to themselves and not the other. Eureka knew her truth. Renton had yet to find his.

"I suppose. Is school here different?"

"Just a little really. We still teach writing and math, and we have to learn our American history, but there's not a lot different about school here from Russia."

"Do the students wear uniforms?"

"There isn't an official school uniform but there's a general dress code. Why?"

"I was just thinking…" she said sliding her foot back and forth on the carpet, "maybe I could wear my old uniform."

Renton smiled, seeing this as her accepting the offer.

"So you'll come then?"

"I will," she said, nodding. "I know it will be fun if you're with me."

The deal was settled, and they went into the living area to exchange small talk and pass the time until Monday came.

»»»»»

**February 8****th****, 1943**

Two figures walked side by side towards the high school campus, dominated by the large clock tower staring down like the tower of God on all the youths walking to and fro, vicariously dancing a silent unknown waltz.

One was a boy who had become a celebrity in his school despite his wishing to keep his profile low, with oak brown hair and dark piercing green eyes that saw through all things and all people. He wore his usual day clothes of the winter: grey single-breasted trench coat buttoned and tied keeping concealed his white dress shirt, buttoned up to the collar where he wore a black tie around his neck. Below the hems of his coat he wore his everyday brown knickerbockers reaching just below his knees, where his tall black socks began to his brown oxford shoes. He struck the figure of an aloof, distant and yet dignified man.

Next to him, clutching at his hand as if holding on to it for dear life in the midst of a powerful maelstrom, was a girl with long flowing and wavy dark brown hair and innocent snow grey eyes, witnesses of many horrors from her old country committed by German and Russian alike. This was her first time going to the boy's school but she was not afraid because the boy was with her, and he guaranteed her protection if anyone dared to say a word of ill will or raise a hand against her. She was not afraid simply because she loved him and trusted him.

She wore her old school uniform back in the days when there was still a sunrise to look forward to every morning, before so many lives were torn apart. It was a simple uniform and utilitarian in nature: a black dress draping over her knees just above her calves with a white lace-trimmed apron tied at the back in a neat bow. She wore a bow in the back of her head as well, striking an image of modesty. Her legs were encased in white thigh-high stockings and black boots for the small puddles of rainwater both of them trod through as they approached his campus.

She grasped and squeezed at his hand, fearful as she took her first step onto the campus grounds and immediately felt the gaze of myriad eyes looking to her, walking next to him, the hero of this small town. She suddenly felt so small compared to him.

"What's the matter, Eurekasha?" Renton quietly asked her as they walked up the tall steps to the main class building where the clock tower stood looking over all.

"Everyone is staring at us," Eureka whispered to him, feeling lost and confused.

"Don't pay them any mind," he said with a reassuring smile. "Just stay close to me."

"I promise I will," she responded, now clinging tightly to his arm. "I am afraid if I do lose you that I won't find you again. This school is bigger than what I first imagined."

Renton gently patted her hand as he opened into the main building and they both went in together. They passed through the bustling hallways filled with a cacophony of chatter and laughing from classmates, friends and lovers. It was as busy as any city street to Eureka, so full of life and activity, but to Renton it seemed quaint and familiar as they rounded a corner.

"Sometimes I get lost myself. I'll show you some of my favorite spots later on. Just stick with me the whole way."

"How can you get lost when you have been here for so long?" she asked as her curious grey eyes scanned over the bustling hallways.

"It comes natural when you daydream as much as I do," Renton remarked as they briskly walked up the stairway to the second floor, disregarding the eyes he knew were cast upon him and her.

Let them think what they want, he thought. If they see her as his "trophy," then it was no skin off his nose. He knew the truth better than anyone in this hallway what existed between them, and that was what counted in his heart.

In an attempt to calm her nerves, she looked at his soft eyes and she whispered playfully,

"What do you daydream about?"

Renton's cheeks flushed at the question as he led Eureka off the stairway and down the busy hallways to a classroom door on the other side. He wondered what she would say if he told her the truth, and more essentially, if she would ever let him live it down if she knew.

"N-nothing really that important…"

"Really Rentoshka?" she asked giggling. "Somehow, for some reason, I do not believe that…"

"One day…I'll tell you," he said trying to hide his flush as he brushed past a classmate going through his locker and reached to doorknob.

"You had better, my dear Rentoshka. We did promise that there would be no secrets between us."

Renton whispered in her ear, his breath tickling her as he opened the door slowly,

"The truth is, I'd hate to have everyone else find out what I think about all day…"

Blushing wildly, she quickly turned her face away from his trying to hide her embarrassment. The way his breath had tickled her ear and along her neck slightly pinged something she had never felt before. And right now was not the time to be like that and she knew it.

"I'm so sorry!" Renton said apologetically, feeling ashamed he had make her feel more uncomfortable here when he was supposed to make her feel at home. "Please forget I said anything!"

"No, no, it's okay," she said smiling shyly. "I really don't mind it at all."

Renton rubbed the back of his head in awkward nervousness, wishing he had taken back everything he said. What was he thinking, making her more uneasy in his school of all places? He was here to help her ease in to her new life, not make her feel more alone!

"If you say so. Now, let's go in."

He opened the door and took her by the hand, leading her into the small classroom. There was a chalkboard at the front of the room flanked on the left by a wall of windows. In front of the chalkboard was an oak table and chair which Eureka presumed was where the teacher sat. Facing the chalkboard were rows of desks, where the students sat talking and laughing amongst each other. They all seemed so happy, like this was a permanent part of their daily lives. Some wore their entire lives on their smiling faces. Others hid behind a mask.

"Are any of these students your friends, Renton?"

"Some are," he said plainly as he set his books down on his desk and took his seat in the front row on the end near the door.

He turned to her and with eyes that seemed to compel and engage, patted the chair next to him and said in Russian,

"Sadis' ryadom sa mnoi." (A/N: Sit next to me.)

Nodding, she did as he asked without a word, and nervously sat down in the desk next to his. She was not sure if she would either be greeted nicely or if anyone would avoid her since already she had received plenty of stares upon entering the school.

"Don't worry," he reassured her in Russian, so no one would be in on their conversation. "If you feel lost or if something is confusing you, just ask me."

Just then, a classmate behind him leaned over his desk and spoke towards Renton.

"So you bagged a broad, eh, Thurston?"

"What is…a broad?" Eureka then asked curiously, as she had yet to learn some words.

Renton whispered to her, again in Russian so that he wouldn't understand their private commuting of words.

"It's another way to refer to a girl, but it's not the best way, if you know what I mean."

"Is that so?" she responded, glaring back at his classmate.

Renton was in no mood to be trifled with and seethed at the very utterance of that word to which he referred to his beloved Eureka. Without turning to him, he curtly retorted, now in English.

"And what of it, Evans?"

"Just didn't think you were the kind to be a hit with the ladies," the boy, Evans, responded laughing. "Then again, I guess fightin' krauts really does wonders for your love life, huh?"

"I would not call it that," she quickly retorted still glaring at him. "He was only doing what was right. And for that I am happy."

"Touchy little lady," Evans laughed. "I guess Russians are as feisty in peace as they are in war. So who is she, Thurston? A bird you pulled off the street and whisked away?"

Renton now whipped his head around and leered at Evans, his green eyes piercing with the sharpness of a thousand knives cutting through the finest of cloth.

"Zatknis', idiot," he hissed before turning back and motioning for Eureka to do the same. (A/N: Shut up, idiot.)

Huffing angrily, she turned around, ignoring his further antics as well. She was not about to let some strange boy get to her. She, like Renton, was stronger than that. The boy only laughed off their rebuff and made another cutting remark.

"Eh, suit yourself. I'm sure we'll all find out eventually. She _does_ seem like a good catch, though. Maybe I should go to Russia and get in on the act. I heard those female snipers them Russkies use are somethin' fierce…"

"Would you like to find out?" Eureka asked quizzically.

Though seeming meek and timid on the outside, her brothers had taught her a few ways of protecting herself of which Renton had only seen a glimpse of when it seemed they were cornered by secret police in Vladivostok.

"Just ignore him, Eureka," Renton cautioned. "He's just doing it to get a rise out of you."

"Trust me Renton," she said winking at him. "He is not as smart as he looks. In fact, he is dumber than a mule."

Renton, still hesitant, quietly whispered once more in Russian so Evans had no clue on what they spoke of.

"Have at him, then," Renton said, chuckling, interested to see what would come of this.

Eureka winked at him playfully and then said, "Well, Evans, is it?…do you really think of us Russian girls as being that 'fierce' as you would say?"

"Eh," Evans said nonchalantly. "I just know what gets talked 'bout 'em. I heard they're so fierce even the krauts fear to be caught by 'em. So tell me, little lady, is it as they say?"

"Would you like to find out?" she asked, smirking.

"Well yeah," Evans said enthusiastically. "You're a Russkie, right? So I figure you'd know."

"But yet again, I do not believe you are worthy of finding that out."

"You're breakin' my heart, toots," Evans said, feigning a wounded spirit and grasping his heart. "That's cold. You must have made all the little boys cry back in Mother Russia."

Evans reached a hand out and placed it gently on her shoulder, but Eureka felt him squeeze slightly as he uttered his next words.

"As feisty as you are, you must've given Thurston more trouble than all the krauts in Stalingrad!"

"I'll show you how much," she said instantly standing up.

Grabbing his hand she kicked him behind his knees, forcing him to the floor. Forcing his arm back around him, Eureka pulled it up nearly pulling his shoulder out of its socket while wrapping her other arm around his neck.

"I also know of three ways to break one's arm and several ways of dislocating them quite painfully. My brothers have taught me well, so it would do you good to behave as well. Do you understand, Mr. Evans?"

"As they…arrggh…say in Russia," Evans groaned, "da…ow…"

"Good," she said releasing him. "Let that be a lesson to you. Never underestimate someone you have just met."

"Especially not a Russkie…arrghh…"

Evans slid back into his desk and remained silent as the grave from then on. Renton whispered to her a word of praise.

"Otlichna, moya milaya Eureka." (A/N: Excellent, my dear Eureka.)

"Holland has taught me well," she said giggling. "I am not as weak as one might perceive."

At that moment, the door opened again and this time Jane swiftly walked in with her deep royal blue dress flowing behind her.

"Good morning, Jane," Renton said nonchalantly as she passed.

"Good morning," Eureka said as well.

"Hullo, Renton," Jane greeted, but then found something not right with the picture.

Normally, Renton always sat alone at the front of the room near the door so he would be the first one out. But she found a beautiful young girl who appeared to be 14 sitting next to him, looking of a maiden to be found from a book of fairy tales. She had long wavy dark brown hair with a white bow in the back and strong grey eyes that seemed to go on forever and give a sense of melancholy, as if the life this girl led was not the most fortunate.

"Sitting next to someone, Renton? I guess you're _not _a complete hermit," she said giggling.

"Oh Jane," Renton said, forgetting to introduce his companion, "This is Eureka, my friend from Stalingrad. She's visiting with me today."

Jane felt conflicted. At last, she was face to face with the girl Renton talked so highly of so often, the girl that was the idolized figure he felt conflicting towards. The girl that brought him so much joy and yet caused him so much pain. She now could see how this girl could command his attention with such effectiveness, for one look to her instantly betrayed her beauty, grace, and charm.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Eureka said smiling up at the young woman in front of her.

Jane's mouth slowly formed into a smile.

"So you're the one Renton always talks about."

"Yes it would seem so," she responding letting out an innocent giggle.

The giggle somehow made Jane seethe. This girl who she had only just met already gave off the aura of a threat as she eyed her with deep blue eyes as one would an annoying insect that had to be squashed quickly. What threat she posed to her she could not tell now, and she doubted if Eureka could.

"Well it's good to put a face to the name that is every other word out of him," she laughed. "I hope we can be friends."

"I do as well," Eureka said letting her innocent side come out as she relaxed. "It would be nice to make some new friends around here."

"You're in the perfect place for it, Eureka."

At that, the door opened and a tall bespectacled man of about 45 walked in wearing a suit and tie covered by a trench coat. Eureka reasoned it was the teacher.

"All right, class, please take your seats. We have a lot to cover today."

Looking forward she focused her attention to the front, aware of the feeling of Renton watching her from time to time. She appreciated the gesture though since she did know he was trying to look over her. That in itself warmed her heart even more.

The teacher turned to the class, and instantly found a new face among the crowd of familiar students. He turned to the girl sitting next to Renton, his top student, and said,

"And I see we have a new face today. Welcome. Would you like to introduce yourself?"

Eureka instantly felt all the eyes in the classroom turn on her, and grew nervous. She felt alone again and frightened by the tremendous amount of attention the class and the teacher paid to her. She froze and stammered, unable of what to say in English and turned to her friend for help.

"Rentoshka…pomogi…" (A/N: Rentoshka...help...)

Renton instantly caught on and stood up, turning to the class.

"Sh-she's my friend…from Stalingrad. She wanted to see my school, so she's visiting with me today."

In contrast to what both were expecting, the eyes and faces of the class brightened with curiosity of their new exotic addition to the class. The teacher was obviously the most intrigued out of everyone in the room.

"So you're Russian, are you? Maybe you'd like to introduce yourself in Russian? Give us a taste of the Motherland, if you will," the teacher said, with laughter from the class.

Renton beamed and explained the situation to Eureka in Russian, and Eureka, with renewed confidence stood up, escorted Renton to the front of the classroom, and stood before the entire class with a bright smiling face. Slowly, she formed her sentences, remembering her day of introduction back in school in Russia.

"Z…zdrastvuitye," she said hesitantly. "M-menya zavut Eureka Petrovna Novikova. No, viy mozhete nazyvat' menya Eureka."

"Hello," Renton translated, "My name is Eureka Petrovna Novikova. But you all can call me Eureka."

"How old are you?" the teacher asked.

Renton translated the question back into Russian for her.

"Menye pitnadsat lyet."

"I'm fifteen years old."

"How long have you known Renton?" the teacher asked again.

Renton gulped at the question, but not wishing to hold up the class, promptly repeated it in Russian to her. Eureka blushed at such a personal question, but she smiled and confidently gave her answer.

"Ya znala tebya, kogda tebye bylo dvenadsat lyet, i mnye dyesit."

"I knew him when he was 12, and when I was 10," he repeated in English.

That earned a swoon from the boys in the class and several giggles from the girls, which made the two of them blush and look away from each other, not wishing for anything to be associated with that bit of information.

"Mnye ochen' priyatno paznakomit'sa s vami," Eureka concluded in Russian, "i ya nadyeyus', shto miy mozhem byt' druz'yami."

"I'm very happy to meet you all," Renton finished, "And I hope we can be friends."

The entire class erupted in applause and some in the back jokingly whistled, which elicited a chuckle from the two of them as they took their seats again and class began.

All the while, Eureka was deeply engaged in what this class entailed even if she did not understand a word of it. Renton told her not to worry as he would explain it all later. Eureka felt safer than ever before and not just because Renton was with her to look over her, but because she felt accepted by his peers now…like she was more a part of his home.

In contrast, further to the back of the class, Jane continued to eye Renton and Eureka, sitting there together laughing and talking like they were an old couple who had so many stories of intimacy and tenderness to share. Everything else faded from her purview and from her focus leaving only the burning feeling in her heart that grew hotter and hotter the longer she eyed that girl. That girl, who could make Renton smile and laugh. That girl, who gave him comfort and refuge from the uncaring world. That girl, who, according to the testimony of Renton himself, he was still sorting out his feelings for.

She saw her with increasing contempt, as someone invading on her territory.

Class went by without any major incident, and Renton said to her as much as they exited out and headed to the next class one floor down.

"Not much happens most days at school. It gets boring some days actually."

"You poor little thing," Eureka laughed as she clung to his arm and followed him down the stairs to his next class. "How do you survive every day?"

Renton blushed at the answer, but gave it with confidence and the conviction of a preacher.

"I look forward to going back to you at the end of each day."

Eureka flushed and said nothing, but felt her heart flutter as he opened the door to his next class two doors down to the left.

It went on like this for much of the day until lunchtime came around. Renton, not wishing to have his Eureka be subject to the scrutiny of his friends, instead toured the campus with her, pointing out to her all manner of things and points of interest. Specifically, the places he went and knew better than anyone else in this estate of learning.

He took her to the high hill where the entire campus was visible and he often stood brooding and looking down on the souls who knew not what wars he fought in his heart, his head and his soul. He brought her to the tree where he reminisced of their days together those cold days in September, before he resolved to take flight and travel to Russia to see her one last time. He led her down the steps to the courtyard at the front of the campus where students from all walks of life gathered and chatted about different manners of business and personal affairs. He guided her through the football fields where he would often walk in silence and muse about the world while his friends would eat and laugh on the bleachers or near the clock tower, far away and out of reach as he fought silent battles.

Much she saw, and far she went, but always with a note of melancholy from him.

"I feel alone many days when I'm here," he said with a heavy sigh.

"Why do you say that, Renton?" Eureka asked, saddened to see her friend and closest thing to a love in this world depressed and downcast. "You have your friends here to support you, don't you?"

"Yes, I do…but…"

"But what, Rentoshka?"

Renton stopped and dug his shoe into the racing track where the school track team was preparing a 100 meter dash. Eureka felt his grip on her hand tighten and almost crush her hand. He grimaced, hinting to her how isolated and utterly alone he was in this town despite his celebrity status and his small devoted circle of friends who all genuinely cared for him.

"But none of them are like you, Eurekasha."

Eureka was struck silent. Renton, the boy closest to her heart and her one true friend in this world, was pouring out his heart to her and letting her see into his soul through one small crack in the fortress he had built around himself. The crack was only known to her and meant to be seen only by her. Could it be that he was finally coming out to her? Was it that he was letting out all he felt in his heart, at long last?

"If my friends were all like you, Eureka, I would never feel so alone and never feel the pain I experience every day."

"Perhaps I should come with you to school more often," Eureka replied, armed with this new revelation.

"As long as you're in my life, I know everything will turn out all right in the end."

Eureka was about to press further with his allegations, but they were interrupted by the calling of a friend of Renton's, "Moondoggie." The caring wise one who could still crack a smile in the face of all this madness.

"What you two doing here all by your lonesome, huh?" Moondoggie jokingly called to them. "If I remember right, Renton wanted you to meet all of us!"

Renton gave an exasperated sigh and smiled tiredly, as if he knew this was all coming. Just when it seemed he was on the verge of a breakthrough and finally able to be honest not just with her but with himself, people would always pull him back in. He didn't mind it, however, because he knew the time was his own to put everything right, to make amends, and to finally come out clean.

"Shall we go?" he asked her, though he knew her answer already.

With an innocent smile that seemed to shine with the light of God Himself, she answered,

"Gladly."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: For anyone who thought the plot was moving too slowly, put those fears to bed right now. This is where it kicks into high gear. You'll see why soon. Also we get to see Renton's brother, which was a rarity before.**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**February 10****th****, 1943**

**Stalingrad, USSR**

Even in the aftermath of the battle, the city was still unfit to be inhabited. All the buildings were towering ruins, at night the place was a pit of blackness, and was unbearable with no heat or electricity. The task was set to rebuild and regain what had been lost. Although Stalingrad was now at peace, soldiers still hustled about and marched westwards to face the enemy and force back the tide that had only now begun to turn. There was, however, one exception to that rule.

The brown-haired chocolate brown-eyed boy led a pack of soldiers through the winding snow-covered streets. The boy was wrapped in a dark brown winter coat and a fur hat on his head to protect himself from the still-freezing cold. The coat had shoulder boards indicating the rank of a junior lieutenant. Just by his posture and form, the boy appeared undeserving of the rank bestowed upon him, as he now darted his eyes back and forth looking for someone to be the recipient of his wrath.

The demands of combat had prevented him from carrying out the plan, ever since he last received the letter from Vladivostok heralding their escape. In the month that had followed, the tempo of battle had picked up, as his new regimental officer had sent him out on every combat mission imaginable, as if engaging him in a test to see if he was up to this, his latest challenge. It was strange how his interests so clearly coincided with the new commander, but he would not question it. Rather, it was an opportunity to wreak revenge on all who crossed him…and apparently, the commander.

He approached a small two-story cafe with a caved-in roof and broken windows. It stood silently, like a ghost from the past resurrected. It hearkened back to a simpler time, a more peaceful and hopeful time, before the firestorm of war scattered so many lives. A reminder of the war that still gripped the nation, and of the enemy that still stood before them.

The lieutenant motioned for the soldiers to follow him. He kicked down the weakened door that was hanging as if by a thread, and entered the cafe, flanked by his men.

The inside was empty, with tables and chairs, remnants of the promising days of youth, tossed over and left to rot like carcasses in the sun. The bar on one side had scratches and wear, evidence of age and abuse from war, chipping away at the pine wood. The lieutenant looked to it with cold, dissecting brown eyes, searching everywhere for possible venues of concealment and deception. He turned to his soldiers and briefed them brusquely.

"Karataev, Alekseev, you two are with me. The rest of you, secure the perimeter. Make sure no one leaves this building."

"Yes, sir!"

The lieutenant ushered Alekseev and Karataev, both lowly enlisted men in their mid-20s, to follow him to the bar. As he lifted up the hinged table, the younger and more timid one, Alekseev, spoke up.

"What are we looking for, Lieutenant Chertov?"

"I would think you'd know, Alekseev. Where do you suppose the partisans that engineer so much dissent and foment treason would hide?"

Chertov motioned for them to follow him behind the bar, and pointed to a small rug on the floor, patterned with superimposed lines of different colors and small tassels lining the ends.

"Karataev, pull the rug back."

Karataev, the older and more muscular of the two enlisted men, did as he was ordered and threw the rug back with the end of his SVT-40 rifle, revealing a hidden entryway with a circular metal handle. Chertov smiled and pulled on the handle, revealing the stairway down into the cellar.

"Ingenious, no?" Chertov laughed knowingly. "Let's pay our comrades-in-arms a visit, shall we?"

Chertov led the two soldiers down the steps and produced a flashlight from his pocket, leading them down a long corridor. The sounds of debris and splintered wood cracking beneath their feet echoed as they passed by an array of doors, all of which were closed. The lieutenant knocked lightly on each door as he passed it, as if searching for something, anything. Then, he came to a door that had a hollow sound to it. Chuckling, he marked the door with an X, carved into the wooden frame by his bayonet.

"This is the place."

He knocked on the door three times, and spoke in an authoritative voice.

"This is the Red Army! Open the door, please!"

No response came from the door. Chertov's eyes narrowed, knowing the game his opponent was playing.

"Holland, it's Ilya. We have some things to talk about. Open the door."

"Maybe he's not here, sir," Alekseev said meekly.

"Oh, he's here alright…" Chertov muttered under his breath with a note of irritation.

Another moment of quiet passed that seemed to mock him. He spoke again, louder this time.

"I'm not here to play games with you, Novikov! Now open the door!"

Again, the corridor was filled with silence, the absence of noise with the exception of the whistling wind outside serving to torment him further. The wind swept by them all, laughing in his ear as if to say, "you've already lost. Go home." Chertov ground his teeth in anger and turned to his two reluctant accomplices.

"Karataev!"

The muscular soldier clicked his heels to attention.

"Get an axe. Break it down."

"Sir!"

Karataev ran down the hall and up the steps in search for an axe to hack away at the door as Chertov paced back and forth. Again and again he called to Holland to open the door and bring what he saw as a quick and easy end to this standoff.

"I don't think he's going to open the door, sir," Alekseev noted.

"Of course not! Why would he, the stubborn brat?"

At that thought, Chertov banged on the door with his gloved fist, his anger growing stronger and harder to suppress with each successive word out of his mouth.

"NOVIKOV! OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW OR WE'LL FORCE A WAY IN!"

There was still not a sound from the other side of the door. Chertov had now had enough, and was kicking on the door, screaming at Holland to let them in and put an end to this stalemate between them. Alekseev could only watch as he saw his commanding officer grow ever closer to losing his mind. He already showed signs of not being in full command of his senses, as if his childish rivalry with the American Russian was not enough. He never seemed to be the type that was suited for the life of a soldier; his frequent outbursts of rage and disrespect to subordinates would have gotten him kicked out of the army long ago. But for whatever reason, the upper brass let him stay on. All Alekseev could think of was finding a way out of this unit, preferably with Karataev, and be put under an officer more deserving of respect than this runt.

Chertov was about to throw debris at the door in the hopes it would break, but no such luck would come for him. Instead he continued flinging curses as if the words would cause the structure to weaken.

"I know you're in there, Holland Petrovich! If you let me in, I might get you a lighter term at the Gulag!"

At those thoughts, Karataev came running down the corridor, carrying a red and silver fire axe in his hands.

"What took you so damn long, Karataev?! Break the door down, now!"

Karataev immediately set to work, hacking away at the door. In the meantime, Chertov briefed Alekseev on what was to happen.

"Ready yourself, soldier," Chertov said as he loaded his revolver. "That little bastard may have a fight prepared for us."

"How do you know, sir?"

"The boy was always one to do things the hard way…"

Alekseev loaded a clip of five rounds into his Mosin-Nagant as Chertov checked on the progress of the door. Karataev was now chopping at the lock, hoping he could cause enough damage for it to fall off. Chertov ordered him on and on, chipping away at the barrier between them and their target.

"Put your back into it!"

With another strong blow, the lock came off and the three soldiers forced the door open. Cautiously they walked in, arms at the ready for anything that might come their way. Chertov looked to his left and saw a thin wobbly circular table beneath a single light bulb. Behind the table sat a boy of 16, with ruffled grey hair and strong blue eyes, staring at him with a knowing, sardonic look. He wore a yellow scarf around his neck and a grey coat over his body, which hid his black corduroys tucked into black jackboots. He was smiling, as if he had been waiting for them.

"Well, well, well," Chertov laughed, turning his revolver towards the boy. "Look what we've found. To think one of the partisans that helped secure our victory was none other than General Novikov's third son, Holland Petrovich."

"Who were you expecting?" Holland answered with a sly grin. "Humphrey Bogart?"

Chertov took two steps forward and aimed his revolver at Holland's head.

"I can't understand how you can be so calm when you face death, Novikov."

"Is it death that I'm facing, or your failure to stop a certain someone from taking a certain someone else out of the country?"

Chertov's face contorted into a deep scowl and took another step towards him, now only across the table from Holland. He cocked the hammer on his revolver as his teeth ground.

"I shall deal with your American friend and your naive sister soon enough. But first, I have business to settle with _you_, Holland Petrovich."

"Don't you get it, you moron?" Holland said, grinning mockingly. "You failed. They're both long gone, and now they're in a place where you can never touch them."

"That matters little. I can easily get to them if I wanted. But what concerns me more…"

He inched the barrel of his revolver forward.

"…is how they got out in the first place."

"Partisans are in the business of fighting fascists. Go to customs to get what you want."

"Don't play dumb with me, Novikov!" Chertov said between his grit teeth. "I know about your little _smuggling_ business. Did you really think it would be kept a secret forever?"

Holland cocked his head slightly, wondering what he meant.

"What smuggling business?"

"I know what you did," Chertov said, smirking. "The fake passport, the doctored travelling papers, and how you killed my men the night they escaped."

Holland was struck silent, but tried to remain in control. Chertov laughed heartily as his brown eyes glinted from the single light bulb hanging above them.

"Poor little Holland," he scathingly lamented. "My classmate, my comrade, my neighbor…my _traitor_."

"If anyone is a traitor here, Ilya, it is you. You'd betray me, my family, everyone you know, just for revenge."

"I beg to differ, Novikov. I'm willing to walk out right now if you answer a few questions."

"Like what?"

Chertov chuckled, and pushed his revolver onto his forehead.

"Explain to me why you did what you did. Give me a reason to let you live. Convince me."

"Convince you?"

"That's what I said."

Holland looked at Chertov incredulously, as if he was asking the stupidest question in the world. Was he being serious about all of this? Was it really such a mystery to him why he helped his best friend and his only sister in this, their time of greatest need?

"Because I did what any other caring sibling would have done, and you have absolutely no right to do what you're doing?"

Chertov laughed, with a note of sanity lost.

"I'm disappointed, Novikov. Surely you can do better than that! I'm starting to get the impression you don't care too much if you die or not!"

"What kind of world do you live in where those _aren't_ good reasons?"

"You want to keep living?!" Chertov spluttered angrily. "Demonstrate it to me! Say, 'Please, my dear Junior Lieutenant Ilya Chertov, have mercy and spare my life!'"

Holland's raised an eyebrow and sighed, exasperated by this big-talking, self-inflated pipsqueak he had known all of his life.

"I don't believe this," he said in disbelief. "Are you for real?"

"SAY IT OR I'LL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!" Chertov spat in a menacing screech.

Holland sighed, knowing to expect this sort of thing from him. Always he sought recognition, but never was given his "just dues," as he liked to say. So he cursed everyone who belittled or threatened to belittle him, if only to satisfy his own ego. So often he clashed with the Novikovs just for welcoming Renton as their friend. Even for all the accusations he flew at the American for conspiring against them, plotting to do them all in behind his back, Holland knew deep down that Chertov was just desperate for attention. So, too, was the threat here: a childish need for attention.

"Please, Junior Lieutenant, spare my life."

"Nyet, nyet," Chertov corrected, his gaze venomously narrowed like a serpent's. "Please, my dear Junior Lieutenant Ilya Chertov—"

"Oh, piss off!" Holland broke him off with disdain.

"SAY IT!"

A moment of silence passed, as if Holland wagered in his head just how much playing along with Chertov would cost him.

"Why bother?" Holland asked indignantly. "You're just going to kill me either way."

"Not necessarily."

Holland sighed, thinking he had nothing left to lose. Everything around him had crumbled away bit by bit with the coming of this war. Even his own neighbor had turned against him.

"Please, my dear Junior Lieutenant Ilya Chertov, have mercy and spare my life."

Surprisingly, Chertov withdrew his revolver from Holland's forehead, pointing the muzzle towards the ceiling. Holland looked up and saw the most obscene smirk he ever found on Chertov's face. The smile was not a friendly inviting one, but rather, in the dimly lit room, gave a sinister air. The smile only grew wider and wider until it was almost unnatural-looking, giving Chertov the appearance of a psychotic murderer in the midst of a kill frenzy. Then Holland heard a chuckle. The chuckle became a laugh, and a laugh became a raucous guffaw. Chertov's brown eyes glinted maliciously and he said, his face contorted in a frightening grin,

"NYET!"

In a flash, Holland felt something blunt and heavy hit his head. The force sent him off the chair and he landed hard on the cold floor. Bringing a hand to his head, he felt a small drop of blood from his near his temple, which turned into a slow-moving stream down the side of his face. As he lay crumpled on the floor, Chertov turned to his two soldiers, silent witnesses to the vengeful madness of this young officer.

"Both of you fetch the gas. This place reeks of vermin. It needs a good fumigation."

"The p-poison gas, sir?" Alekseev asked, hesitant for clarification.

"No, the gas from your belching," Chertov said dryly. "Yes, the poison gas! Now, go!"

The two soldiers left as their superior cackled menacingly, strolling over the injured boy.

"Did you think I would kill you quickly?" Chertov hissed, his words spewing white smoke.

"For a second there…I did."

Chertov grabbed Holland by his head of grey hair and lifted him up with a jerk. Then he whispered, his vengeful and hate-filled words hot in his ear.

"Eureka always said how much she has suffered during this battle. Always she said how there was no home left for her, how your house had fallen to rubble, how our own country treats us like prisoners."

"Is she wrong?" Holland hissed defiantly. "You're all the evidence she needs."

"She doesn't _know_ suffering; _I_ will make her understand it. Her _and_ your pipsqueak Yankee friend."

Holland only looked to Chertov and found no empathy in the young officer's brown eyes. There was a passionate fire, burning with the desire for revenge. In youth, he always was a firebrand, prone to outburst and confrontation. But in those days, he always had something to hold him back. This time, everything about Chertov, from his glaring eyes, his chiseled brow, his unkempt hair, and even the fur hat bearing the Soviet coat of arms on his head seemed to radiate with newly acquired power. Power that he was eager to use and exploit.

"You're a psychopath, Ilya."

Chertov's brow furrowed into a deep valley between his eyes, and Holland felt a sharp kick to his stomach as he turned over in pain.

"Maybe I am," Chertov shot back, "but _I'm_ the one with the gun. And when it comes to reporting subversion, the authorities don't care if the witness is a psychopath."

"Don't make me laugh," Holland coughed, trying to regain his breath. "When your superiors find out about everything you've done, the only thing you will have to look forward to is a hangman's noose."

"Don't be too sure, Holland Petrovich," Chertov said with a smirk. "I came here under orders."

Holland's blue eyes widened to the size of saucers in surprise.

"What?!"

"You heard me. I have a new superior who hates the American as much as I do. And when you are dead, he will follow as well."

"Why, Ilya!?" Holland spluttered. "Why are you doing all of this? What do you hope to gain from killing Renton, abducting Eureka, and getting rid of me?"

Chertov laughed, the anger and conceit rising in his voice with increasing decibel.

"The future, my dear Holland. This conflict, this Great Patriotic War, is merely one front in the global struggle of the people to rid this world of the cancer of fascism. And when this war ends, the victors have the power to control the future of this continent. No, the entire planet! _Nothing_ will hold our nation back from seizing that future. Not Thurston. Not Eureka."

He turned and aimed his revolver at Holland, cornered and being taunted by the very runt who always sought for a chance to be recognized. The runt had grown up, and vengeance had found a place to burrow into the deepest etches of his mind.

"Not even you."

BANG!

A sting worthy of a thousand searing hot needles shot through Holland's body and quickly exited out of him. The boy cried in intense pain as he fell on his back, clutching his right shoulder while blood tainted his grey coat and stained his hand. Chertov only laughed in insane glee as he made his way out the door, his obscene cackle echoing throughout the corridor. As Holland struggled to get up, he heard Chertov jubilantly call to one of his soldiers, assumedly guarding the cafe.

"Sergeant Silin, send word to the Lieutenant Colonel immediately! Tell him that Chertov has eradicated the Stalingrad Partisans!"

Breathing heavily, Holland uneasily rose to his feet, diving first for a wardrobe on the right bandages to stem the flow of blood. He did this with a quick, deft movement of his fingers, wrapping medical tape around the gauze to hold it in place. The only thing that occupied his mind now was escape. He had to leave this land, this country that had betrayed him by allowing men like Chertov to flourish. In retrospect, he should have left with Renton and Eureka when the chance presented itself. He was a fool to think that Chertov would allow him to get away with crossing him.

"Renton…I should have listened to you…"

With a tourniquet made, Holland went for what weapons he could find in the cellar. A dagger stuck in the wall like a coat hanger. An automatic pistol with two magazines of ammunition. A throwing knife he tucked away in his coat. He would need much, much more before he finally left Russia, but it was a start to get him out of the cafe and out of the city.

He ran, but instead of risking an execution by going up to the bar, he went further down the dark corridor. There was a passageway out of this place in times of trouble. Many a day he and his comrades used this path when Germans neared their position. How strange it was to be using this to now escape the very people the partisans supported this whole time. Irony had a way of being cruel. Now he neared a staircase, and he cautiously crept up to the top where a door resided.

Easing the door outward, he peered to see his route of escape blocked by a sentry, presumably one of Chertov's soldiers. It mattered little; just as he killed his own on the night of Renton and Eureka's escape, he would do so here. Slowly and with purpose, he produced his throwing knife and aimed it at the back of the sentry's head. In his mind a flurry of calculations whizzed by, allowing him to judge the right speed and trajectory. Then with a flick of his wrist, the knife was launched.

It landed squarely in the back of his neck, and Holland seized the moment as the sentry slowly collapsed to the ground. To make sure he was dead, he grabbed the sentry by his head and slit his throat with a quick slash of the dagger. Blood spurted from the wound as he gently lay down the sentry and propped him against the wall, giving him the appearance of sleeping.

Then without any hesitation, he darted out of the cafe and made his way for home. He had to find Mikhail, and tell him of what had come to pass, and how they were both in danger. Russia had nothing left for them now. All he had left was to run.

»»»»»

**February 11****th****, 1943**

**Bellforest, California, USA**

Renton and Eureka were finally coming home from a long day of classes, and Renton in particular was looking forward to the weekend. Valentine's Day was right around the corner, and he was pondering in his head what to get Eureka. The pharmacy manager had given him that day off, and he resolved something had to be done with it. What better way to spend it than to teach Eureka about the nature of that day?

"Renton, wait up!" Eureka said, gasping a bit as she trotted up to him.

"Sorry. Don't mean to make you run," Renton apologized, as she came beside him.

"I just got out of physical education. I didn't think those classes could be so tiresome."

Renton smiled, as he remembered all the outings they took in Stalingrad. Such days spent always ended up in one or both of them sprinting, in a race for no real goal other than exhilaration.

"Didn't they give you P.E. in school back home?"

"Yes, but it does not seem to be as hard as it is here in America."

"Well, when the weekend rolls around, you can laze around all day if you want," he said laughing.

"I pray that I can," she said smiling. "The instructor had us running ten laps around the gymnasium today."

"Was that Mr. Brittany? Guy's a hard taskmaster. He always has me sprint relays out on the track."

They turned a corner and immediately spotted their little house. Renton fished the keys out of his pocket in anticipation as they headed up steps on the hill. As they walked, Renton took note to help Eureka with her footing, as the cobblestone steps were hard for her to get used to, being so accustomed to the flat paved roads of Stalingrad.

"My poor legs feel as if they are going to fall off," she sighed tiredly as they reached the front door. "Is that instructor always like that?"

"Sadly, yes," Renton said with a note of resignation. "He's the only coach in the school who can work. All the others have enlisted."

He reached for the door, but both were left in surprise and shock when the door inched open. It was unlocked. Someone had already reached their home, and had entered. Renton led her in cautiously, not sure of what to expect.

"Is there someone here?" she asked quietly.

"I forgot Thursday was the day he gets out early…" Renton muttered to himself.

They entered the hallway, and Renton hung up his trench coat, seemingly in expectance of what was to come.

"Who gets out early?" Eureka asked, somewhat fearfully.

The answer came quietly as a tall boy, no older than 20, came from the direction of the bedrooms. He wore a clean white shirt with a taupe jacket and matching slacks. His hair was blond and slicked back, with a faint smell of cologne on his person. The eyes were a deep brown, and had a striking quality about them, much like Renton's. The boy's look was one of disappointment and seriousness, as if a grave issue stood before them and needed to be addressed.

"H-hello," Eureka greeted quietly.

"William," Renton greeted expectantly, "I didn't think you'd be home so soon."

"Boss let me out around noon," the boy replied. "We need to talk, Renton."

"About?"

"Eureka."

"What about me?" she responded curiously. "Have I done something wrong?"

Renton sighed, knowing this was a discussion he was bound to have sooner or later. William had been against him going to Stalingrad from the very beginning. To check on a friend was one thing, but to bring her home with him was a much more serious matter. Her being in the home was another mouth to feed, another person to provide for with money that was scarce for them. They struggled enough just to get by, with both of the boys working different jobs.

Eureka looked to Renton with concern in her grey eyes, anxiously waiting for an explanation from him.

"You haven't done anything wrong, Eureka. Go wait in your room."

"Oh, okay," she whispered quietly as she gently brushed by the two of them.

Renton watched with a note of longing as she disappeared into the bedroom he had given up to her, and awaited the onslaught from his brother as the door slowly closed behind her. The instant the door closed, Renton sat down on a barstool, and was faced with the interrogations of William. He obviously had misgivings about her still staying on with them.

"Brother," William started with apprehension, "did you ever think about the consequences of going to Stalingrad for her?"

"Of course I did. And I still came back alive, didn't I?"

"That's not what I mean, Renton, and you know it. Did you _once_ think about what bringing her home with you could mean for us? For our family?"

Renton considered the question for a moment. Truthfully, he never did expect the conditions in Stalingrad to be so bad when he arrived. Eureka's plea for help and escape took him by surprise. If she had not brought it up to him, he could only speculate what he would have done.

"I'm not sure if that really came to mind, now that you mention it."

William crossed his arms, and looked at him sternly.

"Renton, you have to be the most impulsive man I've ever known. You went gallivanting off to a warzone, with no regard for anyone else. You nearly got yourself killed multiple times, and almost got arrested. How you managed to survive with only a few scratches is a mystery to me."

"It's a mystery as me as well."

"My point is, you did all of this without thinking, and now you've brought another person into this household without any regard for what may happen to us."

"Well can't you at least give things a chance?" Renton sighed through his tired voice. "If you had seen what I did, you probably would have done the same thing."

Renton was not in a mood to be questioned about this, especially considering all had experienced in the past months just trying to find her. Nevertheless, this was an issue that had to be addressed. He sat in an armchair, searching through his mind for a possible easy solution to the challenge that now faced the lot of them.

"We barely make enough to pay for the roof over our heads, brother. And now that we have an extra mouth to feed, it's going to be that much harder."

"I'll work more hours if I have to, brother," Renton replied, his words hard like stone. "I am _not_ letting her go back to that death hole."

"I'm not proposing we kick her out," William tempered him. "But she can't stay here forever, especially not when she's just an extra burden on us."

"She is NOT a burden, William!" Renton shouted back angrily, giving his brother an ice cold glare. "Eureka is far from that!"

William was taken aback by that sudden surge of emotion. Rarely had he ever seen Renton so passionate about anything, enough to argue the point with ferocity. He remembered how the same feeling filled this room when they fought tooth and nail about the merits of his trek. Whether it was a fool's errand. Whether it was worth risking one's life for someone who might have already been dead.

"Then what is she to you, Renton?" William retorted with seriousness. "Be honest with me."

"She is someone more precious to me than I could ever imagine."

"Is she a friend to you, or something more?"

"I'm…I don't know…" he said, quieter than before. "She's a dear friend, but…"

"Friends come and go, Renton. Not many people remember the friends they make at 12 years old, especially someone you only knew for the summer. I told you this before when you said you were going to Stalingrad."

"There's something different about her, though. I don't know what it is. I just can't quite put my finger on it."

William, seeing what his brother was suffering from, could only smile as he had been in similar situations before at his age. No hesitation hampered him from asking what was possibly the most important question of both Renton and Eureka's life.

"Brother, do you love her?"

"I-I…don't think…I can answer that right now," he stumbled.

"You've only been avoiding it, Renton," William spoke sternly. "The longer you avoid it, the more unfair you're being not just to me, but to Eureka."

"How do you figure that, Will?"

William stood up and walked over to Renton, imparting some wisdom he had acquired from over the years.

"Because if you care about her as deeply as you say, then you would have known the answer long before I asked."

"I suppose I'm not as clued into everything as you are."

"Then you better _get_ a clue, brother."

He motioned to go, but gave one last piece of advice, something that would set a wave of emotions in the young boy's heart.

"I'll let her stay on a bit longer, but I want you to think about what I said. It could have a big impact on your life."

"Then in that case, I think she will be staying around for a very long time."

William smiled and left him, saying his last words to him before leaving him alone.

"If that is how you truly feel, then you best say it to her sooner rather than later. I'm not the kind that likes to wait around, and I'm sure she isn't either."

With that, Renton was again alone, and confronted with what he had to do if he was ever to live with a tamed and quieted soul. One day, he would have to face that question Eureka asked him long ago. One day, he would have to be honest with himself and with her, lest he lose her forever.

"Renton?" Eureka said quietly as she entered the kitchen. "Is…everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, Eureka," he resolutely replied. "Don't worry."

"Oh, all right. I wasn't sure with how your brother was."

Renton sighed deeply as she sat down next to him on an adjacent barstool. He had to be honest with her, and find the right words to say. He had to find the right time for it. As he searched through his mind for an effective means to his end, he told her about what had passed between two siblings.

"Did I ever tell you about how my brother was against me going to Stalingrad, Eureka?"

"No, you have not yet told me that story."

"Well he was," Renton said, reminiscing on that night when tensions ran high. "He didn't want me to risk my life. No one did. Everyone told me I was on a fool's errand, and how I was being immature, harping on someone I hadn't even seen in four years."

"But why would they say that?" she asked out of sheer curiosity. "You were only trying to do the right thing."

"That what I said to my brother that night. But he said how anyone else would have forgotten a friend they met that young, and only knew for a short time. But I ignored all of them. What kind of person would I be if I forgot about you, and everything we shared back then?"

"You would be a fool of course," she giggled playfully.

Renton smiled at her as he gently took a hold of her delicate hand.

"I'm really an idiot. I did everything on an impulse. I did everything without any regard for the consequences. But I want you to know I don't regret a thing, Eurekasha."

"Nor do I, Rentoshka. I am honored that you remembered enough to come and save me."

"I'll always do it for you. You mean more to me than I could ever say."

He whispered gently in her ear tantalizing words that excited her.

"Eureka, I'm off work on Sunday. We can spend it together. Just you and me for the entire day."

"Sounds perfect," she whispered back while kissing his cheek. "I already can't wait to be alone with you."

"Do you know what makes Sunday special, though?"

"What, Renton?"

"It's Valentine's Day."

Eureka looked at him quizzically.

"Valentine's Day? What does that mean?

"It's a day you spend with the people you love and care about most. People do it here every February 14th. People give flowers to each other, or candy or send greeting cards."

"It sounds like a nice day," she said blushing a bit. "Shall we consider this a date, my dear Renton?"

Renton smiled, seeing that adventurous twinkle in her grey eyes he had long thought extinguished. Regardless of what would come, that would be the day he set everything straight with her. That would be the day he examined himself thoroughly, with or without anyone's help. He had to not just for his own sake, but to be fair to her.

"Indeed, my dear Eureka."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: In case anyone had reservations of how the story would go from here, we've reached the end of the first act, so to speak. Now the story really picks up after this.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**February 14****th****, 1943**

**Bellforest, California**

Valentine's Day had come without much incident. They only spent the day walking through town and occasionally bumping into old friends and Eureka making new ones when the opportunity presented itself. Renton had not planned on giving her any extravagant gifts like Dominic did with Anemone, but he did spend an entire day with her and she was satisfied with that.

He had resolved today to finally come clean with himself and with her. The weeks of wandering, brooding, contemplating and turning to friends for support and advice finally cast light on the answer he was so desperately seeking to that all-damning question that had driven him to madness since the day she uttered it to him:

_Rentoshka, if you were destined to stay in Russia forever, or if I was a citizen of your country, would you and I have fallen in love?_

Looking back, if things had truly been as she said, then maybe…no…they _definitely_ would have. He couldn't cut himself off from her if he tried. She swam in his blood. She sang in his ears. She abided in his soul.

Now he only sought and searched through all means of finally being honest, not just with the closest thing to a love for him in this world, but with himself. There had to be the right opportunity to finally come out; it could not be put forward too early or too late. He had finally come to understand everything he felt in his heart when he received a letter from Petya, only two days shy of Valentine's Day that finally set the record straight for him of what kind of emotions he was wrestling with in his heart.

_3__rd __February, 1943_

_Dear Renton,_

_Your recent letter has clued me in to what is troubling you. I was once in your position and I know exactly what it feels like. The truth is I was in love and just didn't know it. I had much thinking and reflecting to do as you do every day, and what I had to consider was how being around Natasha made me feel. She made me feel my best days were ahead of me. I felt the rest of the world didn't matter and only she did. She made me feel comfortable with myself and with life. If I needed comfort and a caring word, I would turn to her. I can only tell you that those are all clear signs that you're in love._

_My friend, it is sometimes best to simply listen to what your heart has to say. Consider what you feel towards Eureka, and see if it all syncs with what I have described. Is she someone dear to you? Can you imagine her not existing? What do you feel when you are with her? What does she mean to you? Consider these questions carefully, Renton. They will provide the answers you are looking for._

_I can only think of one other piece of advice for you to think over: don't be afraid. Love is a beautiful and powerful thing, and I can hardly see why it causes you so much pain. The only pain I sense is from fear. Love sometimes means going out on a limb to tell her how you feel. If you were able to fight your way through Germans in our Stalingrad to find her, you are able to find your way to confess to her._

_Find the right moment, and tell her everything. You will feel much better for it._

_Your reliable friend,_

_Petya_

He had done as Petya recommended, and it did not take long for him to discover the answer. He just had to find the right moment to say everything…to release all the pain that he had inflicted on himself and on her this past month. He said nothing for the moment though, and only continued following her through the streets.

She led him by the hand, as they walked through the town and through the cold damp air. There was not any particular direction they were walking in, only the restless wanderings of a soul quietly crying in agony and another soul quietly crying for love. They passed by stores that seemed to tell of happier days before war and depression, of fond childhood memories that were now whispers in the wind. Each store displayed different wares and told different stories.

A toy shop told of days of innocence and looking forward to playthings for Christmas, birthdays, and rewards for good work in school.

A clothes shop spoke of recent days she spent with her new American friend, searching for the right clothes to entice and attract.

A lingerie shop…they only ran fast past it, despite a small chuckle escaping her lips from the memory of attempts of charming him.

It was an exceptionally cold day, with a heavy fog hanging over the town and permeating every street. The lampposts a few blocks down were almost indistinguishable, the fog was so thick. It proved to be a severe problem as they could not even see the next street signs.

They took a wrong turn and ended up in a dark alleyway. The only light provided was from lamps hanging from the rooftops of the buildings, and gave off the damp and weak glow found in a red light district where only peoples of the night traverse.

"Renton…" Eureka said, clutching at his hand and frozen in fear, "gdye miy?" (A/N: Where are we?)

"Nye znayu," Renton responded, his entire body tense with anticipation, for what he could not discern. "I think we took a wrong turn." (A/N: Nye znayu: I don't know)

"We should head back…"

Eureka tugged at Renton's trench coat sleeve, beckoning him to follow her back, but Renton held his ground, sensing something amiss. It was the sense he often got while on patrol in Stalingrad. The sense of an advancing enemy, waiting for the right moment to strike. He eyed the ground ahead, consumed by mist and fog as thick as pea soup. But soon they both heard footsteps. It sounded like an army of men were coming their way. Then, like specters rising from the grave, the young couple saw four men, all roughly in their early or mid 20s, approach them in a single line.

Eureka squeezed his hand, fearful of what may happen next. The men approaching them did not look to be agreeable or harmless. Renton motioned for her to go while he face the wolf pack. But Eureka refused to move, despite his silent and subtle pleas to leave him. He had always defended her. He had always fought for her. He had risked life and limb to save her, and she had defended him in their great trek back. If theirs was to face certain death together, she had no qualms. Renton, sensing her firmness of purpose, only tightened his grip on her hand and nodded. They'd stay and fight and face the darkest of threats together.

"Well, well," the man in the middle said with a thick Slavic accent, "looks like we found our target. And picked up a good-looking bird as a bonus."

Renton turned to the man in the middle with ice blue eyes glimmering with the luster of a bayonet and brown hair hanging in his face like stray threads hanging from an old shirt. He had a white ascot tied around his neck, as did the other men with him. His mouth was contorted in a crooked smirk, the kind found in only the most conniving of men.

"If it's money you want, I have it," Renton said.

"We're not after money today, my little friend," the brown-haired man replied. "We're more interested in you…Renton Ivanovich Thurston."

Renton's piercing green eyes widened and hardened in suspicion of this gang of irascible youths.

"How do you know my name?"

"Who doesn't know your name now? You're practically known the world over, aren't you…American Russian?"

He said nothing, but only took one step forward with his Oxford shoes.

"Since you seem to know me, I'll ask once: who are you?"

The brown-haired man only laughed, hiding the past of his old homeland he would much rather forget.

"Back home, I was called Valya."

"I take it you're Russian, then. Am I right, Valya?"

"Russia was our home once, but no longer. This is our home."

"Then what brings you here? What do you want with me?"

The gang of four stepped closer, and Eureka retreated behind Renton, shaking in fear of what these men would do.

"I come from the city, and I live in a world where only the strongest survive. I and my friends have fallen on hard times, lately. Enemies are moving in from all around, and we desperately need some recognition. We'd like it if you came with us back to the city."

"What do you plan to do with me there?"

"You're a bargaining chip," Valya said casually, as if this was a trifle of a request. "If someone else is interested in you, we hand you over to them for a price. All else that happens is out of my hands."

Renton felt the gaze of Eureka, looking up to him and tugging stiffly at his coat sleeves and saying with begging and pleading grey eyes, "Don't leave me." He placed one hand over hers and asked the supposed ringleader with a voice of iron,

"And what of the girl? What happens to her if I go with you?"

"She is free to go as she pleases," Valya said, sloughing her off.

"She and I are linked," Renton said with purpose, tightening his grip on her delicate hand. "I go where she goes and vice versa."

Valya saw what Renton was getting at. He shrugged his shoulders and seemed contrite.

"If she likes the prospect of being held for ransom so much, she is free to join us. Maybe it'll bring us an extra penny or two, to bargain not just the life of Renton Thurston, but the life of his prize from the battlefield…"

At the word "prize," Renton's eyes narrowed and Eureka heard his teeth grind in anger.

"Don't you _dare_ call her that…"

The entire gang of four laughed at his apparent apprehension of the comment.

"Well aren't you the little spitfire, Renton Ivanovich?" a black-haired man with brown eyes put in. "As feisty in peace as he was in war…"

"I've killed Germans," Renton continued with resolve, much to Eureka's surprise, "and I can kill all four of you if I have to."

"I invite you to try," Valya boasted raising his unkempt eyebrows.

He then turned to the black-haired man and a man with silver hair and green eyes who seemed an angel in the wrong place compared to the men surrounding him.

"Andrei, Leo, show him how White Scarves fight."

Andrei and Leo approached him, cracking the bones in their knuckles and eyeing the two of them with menacing and malicious intent. Renton quickly turned to Eureka and whispered to her,

"Keep back. Don't interfere."

Eureka took two cautious steps back and could only watch as Renton took a fighting stance and readied himself to fend off these street ruffians of the city. She silently prayed that the strength Renton had fought with in Stalingrad would serve him now, and both of them would be safe from the hands of these wayward youths. Maybe the strength he found in fighting gangsters would give him the same strength of being honest with her.

Andrei made a jab at Renton's face, but he quickly dodged it and made an effort to land an uppercut punch to Andrei's jaw. Andrei moved back and tried to grab Renton's hand, but Renton grabbed Andrei's free hand and soon were engaged in tussle, each struggling to bring the other down. Renton kicked Andrei in the shin, and used the opening to turn on his heel and chop on his neck, knocking him out.

Leo then attacked him and tried to grapple him to the pavement, but Renton ducked out of the way and tried to land a firm kick to his back, but Leo dodged this attempt and made a grab for Renton's wrist. However Renton landed a firm punch to his face, sending him back a few feet. Leo charged him again, but Renton took the ready stance as a boxer would before the sound of the bell. Leo went for a quick jab at Renton, but he sidestepped Leo and tripped him, sending him to the ground with a thud. Renton grabbed Leo's leg.

"This is called the Siberian foot-lock. You can't get out of this one…"

Leo screamed in pain as he experienced what felt like a thousand knives stabbing him in his knee, and heard a sickening crack. Renton let his leg go and it fell to the ground mangled and bruised before turning to Valya and crossing his arms, challenging him to fight again if he dared.

"Marat," Valya spoke to a fiery-eyed auburn-haired man brandishing a switchblade, "it doesn't look like he's going to come quietly. Maybe a few_ cutting_ words might persuade him…"

Marat lunged at Renton, the blade shining like a full moon on a crisp winter night. Renton sidestepped him and tried to knock him over. But Marat turned on his heel and tried to stab him in the chest cavity and finally put him out of commission. As Renton was backed against the alley wall, he kicked Marat in the abdomen, hoping his leg would provide enough strength to keep him back. Marat continued to attempt short and aggressive jabs at Renton, now aiming for his face. Renton felt the blade cut just below his left eye, and felt the warm liquid of life hemorrhage. He winced in pain at the nick, and prompted Eureka to almost step in.

"Rentoshka!"

"No, Eurekasha! Keep away!"

Eureka, against her base reactions to jump to Renton's aid, stayed out, knowing she might end endangering herself as well as him. All the while, she was mesmerized at his superb skills in combat. She had seen him fight against agents of the secret police in Vladivostok and Stalingrad, but it was always with a note of reluctance from him. Here he fought with ferocity, unseen since his days in Stalingrad. What drove him to fight so much despite his hatred for it?

Renton now used the moment to punch a distracted Marat in the eye, leaving him with a blackened socket as he skidded across the pavement and tried to lunge again at Renton. Renton now leaped forward and tackled him to the ground, wrestling the blade out of his hand as they struggled with each other for a few moments. Marat had Renton at his wrists and tried desperately to hold him from grabbing the switchblade and turning the tables. He landed a hard punch to Renton's jaw, but Renton retaliated with a blow to his remaining eye rending him blind. Now Marat's grip on his wrists loosened and Renton seized the moment to grab the switchblade and stab Marat in the palm of his hand.

Marat yelled out in pain as Renton then rolled on his back and stabbed the remaining hand before finally stomping on his abdomen and kicking him over.

Bloodied, bruised, but unbeaten, Renton turned to Valya who had yet to fight him. He raised the switchblade and took the stance of _en garde_, awaiting Valya's next move. Valya laughed, and slowly applauded him.

"You fight quite well for someone so young, Thurston. I am impressed."

"Will you let us go then?" Renton proposed, brandishing the switchblade in his direction.

"Not yet," Valya declined, sifting through his pocket for something neither Renton nor Eureka could discern. "The best way to settle this is a test of strength."

Renton's eyes narrowed indignantly at the thought of a personal duel with this hoodlum. Fighting Germans and his own Russian brothers was bad enough, but to fight one of his own kind, over such a thing as who was the strongest? Wasn't this question of who was the strongest what got the whole world into this mess? Germany claimed it was the strongest of all nations, and started the war his country was now embroiled in. Japan claimed it was the strongest nation in the Pacific, and now his father was away fighting against the hordes who wished to conquer. What meant strength? The power to rule over all? The will to survive in a fight? Or was it something closer…deeper…and simpler than all of those temporal vanities and delusions of grandeur?

"Valya," Renton said with the voice of a sagely scholar, "you will come to learn there are other ways to prove who is the strongest rather than fighting."

"Then tell me, Renton Ivanovich," Valya responded, unfazed, "which strength do you believe in? The physical will? Whoever wins in a duel?"

"Strength is not determined by violence, and it is that very notion that started this war. True strength is decided by what is in the heart."

Valya frowned, obviously dissatisfied with Renton's answer. To think that a hero who had seen deadly combat and fought in the harshest winters the Motherland had yet to give would still think in such lofty, idealistic terms! To hear a man of great deeds still entertain the notion of any principles, any hope left in this world that had gone to Hell! Valya knew the harshness of the world, growing up among men who only thought of power and intimidation of rivals. He had grown to accept the world as he found it, and he would think Renton would be far more in touch with that reality!

"You think this world knows of such talk, Renton Ivanovich?" Valya spat in disgust, his nihilism rising in his voice. "You think men of power still dream of such glittery promises when they drag us to war? You think the soldiers of our Motherland still fight for such ideals when they see the fascist hordes marching towards them? Are you really that naive, Renton Ivanovich?"

"Think of me as you like, but that is my belief," Renton responded, refusing to hide his conviction.

Valya laughed, despairing for the hero who still held on to dreams that now belonged to a foolish and childish past. He almost felt sorry for bringing this down upon him as he fished out a knife from his coat pocket.

"If you wish to live in a world of illusions, then I will break them from under you!"

Valya charged Renton, and made a stab at his lung, but Renton dodged it by inches, barely cutting into the fabric of his grey trench coat. Renton made a lunge of his own and tried to cut him at his fighting arm, but Valya sidestepped and spun on his heel to deal a swift kick to his shins. Renton was sent straight to the pavement but he wasted no time in rolling over and avoiding the plunge of Valya's knife and managed to cut at just above Valya's wrist. Undaunted, Valya tried to tackle Renton, but he kicked him in the chest and moved in for the final blow.

Before Valya could mount a sophisticated defense, Renton plunged the switchblade through Valya's fighting hand and then to his thigh, covering his pant leg with blood. Wanting to keep up the momentum, Renton quickly kicked Valya in the jaw, knocking him out.

A final groan of pain from Valya brought an end to the violent scene that Renton wished he could forget, like so many other things that haunted him. He sighed, cursing in his head the wickedness and unhappiness in the world that drove men to each other's throats for hope of personal gain. He had become one of the victims as well as the perpetrators in the daily crimes of man, but he feared not for his fate in the life to come. For one woman, true in spirit and mind and honest in body and soul, provided him with all the reason he needed to carry the sin with no word of complaint. It was she who he turned to, and spoke in the language only they knew.

"Let's get out of here."

They turned to walk away from the macabre scene, only now, Renton led her by the hand. He would take her away from all of this, lead her to a life that only had love and tranquility in its wake, and reveal to her secrets he had kept held in his heart.

Just then, a drop of water landed on Eureka's head. Then another, and another, and another. The pavement turned dark with rain and a thunder clap that told of the wrath of God broke the stillness of the town. Soon it began to pour and they took shelter under the canopy of a bookstore as they discussed how to get out of the rain.

"Let's go home," she said, tired of seeing the town after the horrors that unfolded before her.

"We're too far away now," he lamented, obviously wishing to go back. "We'll be soaked by the time we reach home."

"Then we should wait out the rain. Is there anywhere in this town we can go to?"

"Da," he answered, resolved. "I know a place."

He led her through the rain-covered streets, sprinting as fast as track runners in search of the place of sanctuary that only Renton knew. Further inward, beyond the town square and the cafe where seniors play chess and children laugh and sing of happier days, there was an old bridge, one that had been in town as long as Renton could remember. It was made of stone and mortar, and started to show its age with the growing of moss and vines on its arches.

What started as a drizzle was now torrential rain, with thunder crashes loud as cannon fire going and lightning bolts striking up the dark cloudy sky with an unsettling, foreboding portent. They stood under the bridge, and looked out into the tempest that played out before their young eyes, as their hearts searched for words to questions they knew not of. Eureka eyed her dearest friend and closest thing to a love, seeing once again the depression that had gripped him since returning from Russia.

Renton leaned on the wall of the bridge arch, looking out into the storm that seemed to visualize the swirl of emotions in his own heart. His coat was slightly torn at the shoulder, and spots of blood stained his collar from his wounds. His oak brown locks were dripping wet, sticking to his forehead and the nape of his neck and served to highlight his glassy green eyes, aimlessly staring out into the distance without a sense of rhyme or reason. He looked weighed down by something.

"Renton…" she started.

He turned his head slowly to look to her, her snowy grey eyes begging him for something, but what he could not discern. She called out to her bewildered and downcast companion, asking him to answer what had left her in a quandary.

"How is it you can fight so fiercely when you despise it?"

Renton sighed, turning to her and speaking in a voice that spoke of weariness and resignation.

"I'll fight for anything that is precious to me, Eureka. And I will always fight especially for you."

Eureka blushed and felt her heart stir, moved by his sincere admission. Despite his obviously heartfelt statement, his answers were also so ambiguous, so unclear. He always dodged the question, hiding something from her that she desperately wanted revealed. She was honest with herself as far as he was concerned, so why can't he be the same? But she resolved to get the answer out of him this time. If she didn't ask now, she never would, and she would never be able to live with herself afterward.

"Then what am I to you, Renton?" she asked, her voice hard as stone. "Am I your prize from Stalingrad like Valya suggested? Am I _just_ your friend?"

"Eureka…" Renton said slowly in shock, having never heard her speak so harshly before now.

"You've never been direct with me, Rentoshka," she continued, her snow grey eyes unflinching. "You've always avoided the issue when you could, and you've always acted like you're hiding something from me. I'm sick and tired of you stringing me along! Dai mnye tvoi otvyet seichas!" (A/N: Give me your answer now!)

She stomped her foot on the ground in anger and resolution, her indignation at his continued reticence and restraint evident by the scowl on her face and the fire in her eyes that dried her wet, wavy, dark brown locks. She left him there, standing with a mouth agape, as she awaited his answer.

Renton saw this was the moment. It was now or never. He just had to find the right way to express it. Thousands of ways to finally say what he had meant to all this time zipped through his head. In milliseconds he considered and threw them out, none of them seeming appropriate. He was about to give up all hope when he spotted a stone on ground. He then looked to the walls and in an instant, it was all made clear.

"I have an answer, but I can't say it."

He picked up the stone and said, green eyes glimmering with desire for forgiveness,

"I'm sorry, Eurekasha. This is the best I can do."

Eureka tilted her head in confusion at what Renton did next. He turned to the walls of the bridge arch and started to write, the stone leaving a dark thin trail of his very heart and soul that he had kept hidden from everyone and from her. In a shaky and uneasy hand, he wrote out in small simple words that damnable and agonizing feeling that had driven him to the brink of insanity since returning home. Two short sentences formed that spoke volumes, far more than all the books in the world could.

_T__Ы ПРЕКРАСН__A__, ЭУРЕКА__. _(A/N: You're beautiful, Eureka. Pronunciation: Tiy prikrasna, Eureka.)

_Я __TE__БЯ ЛЮБЛЮ__. _(A/N: I love you. Pronunciation: Ya tebya lyublyu.)

"And now you know what has driven me insane this whole time…" he said, not facing her.

Finally honest not just with the love of his life but with himself, he only leaned against his personal engraving and silently awaited a response from her. A word of rejoice, a cry, a whimper, anything that would give him the confidence to know that she now understood what had been the method to his madness, the source of all his pain, and the one reason he would give up his own life. There was silence for what seemed like an eternity until he heard something.

It was like the whimper of a wounded dog. Soon the whimper turned to crying and then to sobbing. He turned and found her face buried in her hands, crying her heart out not out of sadness, but out of joy in finally knowing the true feelings of her one companion in this life.

"Renton…"

She raised her head and sported the brightest smile he had ever seen on her face since the day he met her, shining like the rosy fingers of dawn and singing like the trumpets of a thousand angels. Did she reciprocate, and felt the same in her heart since the day he came back? She soon gave her answer.

"Renton," she said, fighting through tears of elation, "eta vyso, shto ya khotela." (A/N: That is all I wanted.)

"Then do you love me?" Renton asked, holding back his own tears.

He had to know now, so that all of these efforts of travelling across the world, fighting and killing Germans, becoming a hero and then a villain, receiving bloodstained laurels and enduring the costly war in his head were not all in vain. If she could not reciprocate, he would be trapped in another never-ending battle with himself who would only cry out how he had failed in his campaign, and how a chance of living a life with a quiet and tamed heart would be forever beyond his grasp. He had to know her heart now, just as she had come to know his.

"Da," she said, tears streaming down her face in rivers of revelation. "I love you with all of my heart, Renton Ivanovich Thurston."

With those words, his campaign was at last complete and the gap in his heart closed. At last he had found the answer to the heart-wrenching question she posed to him those many years ago. But at the same time, he felt like he had wronged her greatly for leading her on this whole time. He stood on his feet and embraced her in an instant, as she cried into his chest, soaking his trench coat.

"Eureka Petrovna, I'm sorry!"

"Why, Renton?" Eureka asked, sniffling, still trying to stem the flow of her tears. "Why should you apologize for anything?"

"I've been a fool. I thought there was some answer I had to reach to finally ease the pain in my heart. The answer has been right beside me and I never realized it!"

Eureka giggled, nuzzling him and sinking deeper into his embrace.

"Renton, you may be a fool, but now you will always be _my_ fool. Nothing from here on out will ever change that."

"Then can you forgive me for holding back for so long?"

"Have I ever not forgiven you?"

"Never," he chuckled, stroking her soft brown hair.

"You shall have no worries, then. All I have of you is one request."

"Anything," he whispered. "Just name it."

"Kiss me, and don't hold back. I want to feel from your lips just how much you love me."

Renton smiled and nodded, and leaned in gently to her face, cupping her cheek in his hand. Inch by inch, the barrier between them narrowed and with it the final victory in a long campaign in sight. Renton hesitated for a moment when he was barely a centimeter away, evidenced by a nervous gulp. But everything else from his admission, his times with her, to the times that would be spent in the future, ruled out any hesitance he had left in his heart. With no warning or reason, he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss.

It was smooth and gentle at first, a kiss that would be shared between children after a long day playing in the fields of youth. But all the passion he had kept locked up now overflowed, and he could not hold back if he tried. His kiss deepened, now to one of passion between soulmates, years spent of two hearts linked in spirit. Theirs was sweet like sugar, before diving even deeper into the ocean of fire, lips pressed close together and still embracing each other hard enough to make their ribs cry in protest. But that did not deter him. He would go deeper and deeper, as deep as he could to prove to her just how much he had loved her and how it had not changed one bit from then.

Throwing any caution she had to the wind, she returned the kiss, giving Renton all the love she had kept hidden in her heart. But this kiss, the first real one from the one she had loved for so long, made her stomach flutter, feeling like it was filled with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of excited butterflies. Snaking her arms around his neck, she used him as support. Her knees weakened, the passion she was feeling turning the rest of her insides to jelly now that everything that they had kept hidden was finally free and out in the open.

Renton finally broke away, gasping for much needed oxygen, though he would much rather still be locked with her in the kiss that set them free and made long-held emotions finally made known, with love crying out in both of them now.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Renton whispered, in-between breaths.

"At least this time, it was real," she responded resting a hand upon his uninjured cheek. "And it will be for as long as we can be together."

He smiled and gently placed one hand behind her neck and beneath her soft mane of dark brown hair and slipped the other around her hips as he rested his head against hers.

"Ya budu s toboi. Vsegda." (A/N: I will be with you. Always.)

Away and out of sight of the two recently admitted lovers, a hooded figure watched this passionate scene from behind the shadows and under the shelter of a canopy. It was a woman, roughly the age of the boy, with golden blonde hair hidden beneath her light blue cloak and hood. Beneath the darkness of her hood stood a solid ocean blue eye that gazed upon the two of them, standing there under the bridge engaged in the ritual only lovers know.

A tear came to the eye and ran down the woman's cheek, crying for a lost opportunity with someone who she only now realized to be her love. She had been a fool, thinking there was always more time. If she had said something or acted, she might had changed the whole outcome of this little story of intrigue and repressed feelings. Now one tear turned to two. Two turned into a river. A river turned into a torrent, as she sobbed out her regret while laughing at the irony of the scene.

"I see! I understand now, Renton! I know now what has driven you mad! It was her. It was always her. You had always loved her…poor little fool…you and I…we're both such fools…"

»»»»»

**February 16****th****, 1943**

**Stalingrad, USSR**

The snows had just begun to melt, and spring was creeping on Mother Russia. It had been only two weeks since the German surrender, and the city still appeared to be in a state of siege. Reconstruction had not yet begun, and all in the old city realized that it would be many a year and many an hour of hard labor before the city was inhabitable again. The soldiers that now marched out of the city westward bound still gave any visitor the impression that the metropolis was still a battleground. As for the civilians who began to return, the primary thing on their minds was to simply find their homes again and begin life anew.

A woman of short light-colored hair and sharp green eyes had received orders from a superior to meet in the basement of an undisclosed building. The note she carried in her coat pocket merely said to look for a sign, any sign.

_You will recognize it when you see it._

She wore the traditional uniform of an Interior Ministry agent: a dark khaki jacket with blue riding pants tucked into tall black boots. The shoulder boards denoted the rank of a junior lieutenant, an anomaly if ever there was one in the NKVD; women hardly got promoted past sergeant, for Hell knows what reason. A law by Stalin? A law made at the first Politburo meeting? A decree by the NKVD chief of staff? She knew not. All she knew was she was a servant of the state, and what was good for the state was good for her, or so she was taught from birth.

All she could hear was the crunch of resisting snow beneath her boots as she walked along upturned streets and passed mute broken apartments, monuments to the ongoing struggle of a people united against a hostile invader. On every building she passed, there was graffiti that spoke of the ongoing battle against fascism, that extolled heroes, demonized villains, and mourned victims.

_ВРАГ БУДЕТ РАЗБИТ!_ (A/N: The enemy will be defeated! Pronunciation: Vrag budyet razbit!)

_The walls are broken, but not our hearts._

_Remember the American Russian!_

At the words "American Russian," she harkened back to stories her comrades told during the days of combat in this once fair city. Stories told of a boy who had once visited the Soviet Union and this very city, and spent days of friendship with the people, becoming a Russian in all but name. When the Germans attacked, he hurried to the aid of his Russian brothers and sisters, and fought side by side with soldiers of the Motherland. It was in a time when it seemed the Soviet Union faced Germany alone, with little to no help from the Western Allies. His arrival provided a much-needed morale boost to the soldiers, and inspired them to continue the fight. When the battle was won, the American Russian disappeared, and was never heard from again. As for what happened to him, the stories were as varied as the members of the Animal Kingdom.

One said he went home, his duty done.

Another said he was killed on the last day of the battle.

Yet another said he still fights on with his comrades, but merely as a faceless soldier rather than the glowing example of support from across the Pacific.

Whatever happened to him after Stalingrad, he was now etched in all of their minds, a symbol of American alliance with the Soviets, and a testament to the friendship between their peoples. If he was killed, he would never die, because he would live on in their hearts. He was as loved a figure as Stalin, or the long-suffering Russian soldier.

She would be a terrible liar if she said she did not envy him, to achieve fame in such a short span of time. Her exploits were far less than glorious, as she had fought with her comrades in the NKVD since the beginning of the battle; her unit fought fiercely in the battle for Mamaev Kurgan, the old railway station, near Pavlov's house, and in the metal mazes of the Red October Tractor Factory. She had merely carried out her duties, fired her rifle, and killed fascists whenever she got a chance. Her only reward for braving through such horrors was the commission she had only recently received, and even after it, it meant little.

Most of her unit was gone, casualties of the battle. She remembered how her commanding officers were replaced practically every week, as they suffered a particularly high casualty rate. She was lucky she even survived the battle, let alone got a commission. Perhaps this meeting with her as of yet unknown superior was to assign her to a new unit. It was a prospect she was hesitant about taking on at best, and totally averse to at least.

The life of a combat soldier was extremely taxing, and it was not something she was accustomed to. She could remember a time when she could list her duties as an NKVD officer on one hand. The life of a police officer was more a job suited for her; she prayed and hoped that this would be the job she was to be assigned upon the meeting with her commanding officer.

Sure enough, a sign that her superior was nearby appeared before her; a guard, decked in full dress uniform, standing tall beside a doorway leading into what looked to be an ordinary cafe. She approached the guard and inquired about the new superior.

"He is waiting in the cellar."

"The cellar?"

"Yes. Go behind the bar of the cafe and you will find a trap door. You can figure out the rest."

The guard said nothing more, much to the displeasure of the NKVD agent. She shrugged it off, and did as the guard suggested. The cafe was completely deserted like a ghost town, yet another sign of the destruction and suffering this martyred city had endured in the past six months. She remembered a time during her duty before the siege how places like this once buzzed with conversations between friends, family, and lovers. No longer. Not now, when there was still work to be done. Not as long as there was an enemy to fight and defeat.

She went behind the barren bar and found what the guard said she would find: a trap door, leading down into a poorly-lit cellar. Wandering around the cellar, she realized how she forgot to ask the guard which room her new commander would be in. She was about to double back when she heard a cough from a room nearby and what sounded like a glass hitting a wooden table.

She turned right through an unmarked door and found a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Beneath it, a worn circular wooden table on which stood a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. Behind the bottle stood the silhouette of a man, who she could only guess was her new superior. From what little she could see in the light, he wore a Red Army uniform with insignia on his collar and shoulder boards denoting the rank of lieutenant colonel. He had a stubbly face, and judging from his body outline, he looked to be in his late twenties. Two icy blue eyes shot out at her, with as cutting a gaze as a fine steak knife.

"Comrade Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Ah, Agent 340," answered the officer in a deep, raspy voice. "Please, do come in."

Agent 340 stepped forward, and stood in front of the table, choosing not to sit down unless ordered to do so. She sensed the penchant smell of vodka that was heavy on his words and coated his breath. The eyes were bloodshot and hazy, easily from many a night contemplating troop movements to drive out the hated enemy. And yet they were magnetic and entrancing, like cheese strapped to a mouse trap. She wanted to look away, but did not have the power to.

He poured a drink into the shot glass and offered it to her.

"No thank you, sir," she politely refused. "I don't drink."

"Well," he coughed, as he took the glass himself, "it is not a good habit, but all good habits do make a dull person. What's that old British saying? 'All work and no play makes…'"

"A dull man, sir."

The man laughed, but not the jovial kind one would share among friends. It was the kind of laugh that could strike fear as finely as a knife cut through skin. The kind of laugh that one would expect not from a friend, but from a feared adversary. She shivered in her boots just at his chortle, though she refused to let him on one centimeter to what fear possessed her mind.

"Right you are," the man continued, downing the shot. "There is a time for work, and a time for play."

He ushered her closer, and she took a seat in front of him, not minding the strong stench of his vodka. She figured it was now time for business between them.

"I have much work for you. Are you ready to take it on, Agent 340?"

"Whatever my orders are, I shall carry them out to the best of my ability."

"Are you willing to do anything to see your orders fulfilled? Even if it means risking your life?"

"Of course, comrade Lieutenant Colonel."

The man seemed contrite and poured another drink.

"You understand why I must ask you these questions, of course, Agent 340. With the tide only now beginning to turn, we must keep an esprit d' corps, if you will. But the enemy you will be facing is someone who may prove to be far more challenging than your average German soldier."

"Who is it, sir? Marshal Goering? Herr Goebbels? Or Hitler himself?"

"Actually, none of the above," said the lieutenant colonel, a knowing smile cutting through the dimness of the room. "He is not German. Besides which, I am certain that any of your choices would not give nearly as much challenge."

"Who is he, then, sir? If I am to be given an assassination mission, it is necessary that I—"

The lieutenant colonel raised a hand, indicating for her to stop. She did as she was asked, and waited for the officer to take his drink, which he downed with a hard gulp.

"He is someone that all of us are familiar with and love dearly. Do you, by chance, know of the American Russian?"

"Renton Ivanovich Thurston?" 340 asked in surprise.

"The same."

"Sir, if I may ask, didn't he die on the last day of Stalingrad?"

The blue eyes shot a hard glare at her, noting how she was asking too many questions when she didn't even know what the mission was. 340 took the hint and folded her hands behind her back, as if to ask for forgiveness from a priest.

"No, he didn't die. He left Russia shortly after Stalingrad."

"Oh…" 340 said slowly, taken aback by this news.

Surely a man of such great repute would volunteer to stay on with the Soviets and fight the enemy to the end. To think that he would leave so soon after the battle was over, and when there was still a great deal of work to be done seemed surreal even in conception.

"Your orders," the man started, obviously with the hope of no questions, "are to travel abroad to America and find him. If you do find him, you are to kill him."

At the word "kill," she stifled a gasp. Where did this heavy-drinking, hard-staring lieutenant colonel misplace his brain to think that ordering the assassination of a national hero was an even remotely good idea? The thought was akin to ordering every soldier to take his gun and put a bullet through his head. She searched through her mind for any and every possible explanation for why this hero to the people should suffer death, and found none. She only turned to the lieutenant colonel, and entreated silently for an explanation. She didn't expect she would get one, but she had to know.

"You want to know why I am giving such an order, yes?"

"Y…yes, sir."

"That is for me to know alone. I cannot give you clearance to that information. But all I can say is he is a hindrance to a future plan for our great nation."

"If that is the case, sir, why eliminate him now when our soldiers could use the morale boost—?"

At that question, the lieutenant colonel slammed his fist on the table, shaking the glass and bottle with the force of an earthquake. He stood up and for a moment, a brief fleeting moment, she could see his face before it became shrouded in darkness, with only the icy blue eyes illuminating and throwing ten thousand daggers straight through her soul.

"You ask too much, 340," he said, his voice foreboding with dread. "Are you not a servant of the Soviet Union? Is it not your duty to answer her call, carry out her orders, and fulfill her plans without hesitation or question? Is it not your obligation to serve her with loyalty and dedication, no matter what the circumstances may be? Are you not trained to follow orders, Agent 340?"

With a pair of stone-cold eyes glaring her down, she felt her feet shake in her boots, and knew that she risked her life if she spoke out of turn once more. She bowed slightly, asking for pardon.

"Forgive me, comrade Lieutenant Colonel."

"That's better. You leave for Vladivostok at the end of the month. There, you will meet your commanding officer and the rest of your team for the operation. I suggest you start preparing a cover for yourself, as you will need it in America. Do you have any questions regarding your mission, Agent 340?"

340 shook her head. It was more motivated by fear than lack of curiosity; another question and he might strike her with the now half empty vodka bottle.

"None, sir."

"Good," he said, smiling. "You are dismissed."


	8. Chapter 8

******Author's Note: This chapter is shorter than the others have been, but I think it gets the job done. Consider it my New Year's gift to all of you as we enter the second act of the story. We see Chertov again, and the assassination mission finally gets underway, but not without some reservations felt by the agents. Enjoy.**

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**March 14****th****, 1943**

**Somewhere on the Trans-Siberian Railway, USSR**

Wheels pounding on rails echoed outside the small coach seat as 340 kept pouring over again and again at the case files, as ordered by the Lieutenant Colonel. Everything she needed for this mission was printed on these papers labeled **TOP SECRET **and with the warning **DO NOT DISTRIBUTE**. Everything there was to know about the target was found in her files. Well…_almost_ everything.

She brushed aside her light-colored hair from her eyes as she gleaned what necessary information she could from the profile of the target. As typical of strictly confidential case files, there was not much about the _boy_. Rather, it was more about where he came from, what he did, and why he was so important not just to the Red Army but to the nation as a whole.

_Captain Renton Ivanovich Thurston_

_Date of birth: 3__rd__ June, 1926_

_Place of birth: Greenbrae, California USA_

_Hair color: brown_

_Eye color: green_

_Status: Missing In Action_

_Father is currently serving overseas with the United States Marine Corps in the Pacific. Mother is deceased. Has one sibling, William, age 20._

_Little is known about Renton's life before his first visit to the Soviet Union. He was born the second son in a Californian farming family, but lost his farm after the death of his mother. He settled with his father and older brother in Bellforest, north of San Francisco, where he has made his home ever since._

_Renton first traveled to the Soviet Union in July 1938 as part of a continental tour with his father. He visited the city of Moscow for a week and furloughed in Stalingrad for a month. While there, he established contact with the family of General Pyotr Nikolaevich Novikov, who offered their home to him and his father when their scheduled ship to New York was delayed for technical reasons. On 22 August 1938, Renton and his father left Stalingrad via the Trans-Siberian Railway and returned to San Francisco on 4 September. They kept contact with the Novikovs by letter._

_On 30 November 1942, Renton left for Vladivostok by Lend-Lease ship from San Francisco, and arrived in Stalingrad on 14 December. The reasons for his return are unknown, but it is believed he wished to reestablish contact with the Novikov family. After displaying superb combat and command skills, word came down from High Command for him to serve as an officer in the 150__th__ Infantry Battalion, 12__th__ Guards Division, 62__nd__ Army. He accepted the offer. However, after spending five days on the frontlines, he was discharged by the battalion commander for reasons of combat fatigue and concerns of mental health. He was decorated for his service by Lieutenant General Vasili Chuikov with the title Hero of the Soviet Union. After the end of his combat stint on 19 December 1942, he has been reported as missing in action._

Admittedly, the bio didn't give her much information to go on, other than his last known whereabouts. 340 still pondered in her head why on earth this hero of the people would be targeted for such a thing like assassination. Perhaps when she met with her officer in Vladivostok, she would receive a bit more detail. However, what little story the bio told gave her food for thought about just what kind of boy she was dealing with. Truthfully, he didn't seem like a formidable opponent at all, if he only fought in Stalingrad for a mere five days. Yet his actions warranted decoration by a high-ranking officer! It seemed surreal, like out of a horror novel, to hear of this mild-mannered boy of humble background to be subjected to the terrors of battle and be forced to face the darkness of the world.

Her blue eyes turned to the profile photograph of the target. He looked quite young, with his hair unkempt and hanging in his face and his eyes having a strong, piercing quality about them. He seemed forlorn and weighed down by something, as if the entire earth and all its ugliness stood on his frail shoulders. 340 ran her hand over the photograph, tracing the curves in his face with her fingers, veiled by pristine white gloves.

"He's only 16," she mused to no one in particular, "and yet he has suffered so much. It's cruel."

"A boy with a grudge against the world that shunned him," said an unknown feminine voice.

340 turned to see a dark-haired girl her age with a tanned complexion and grey eyes looking over her shoulder at the case files. She wore a uniform of the NKVD, with her shoulder insignia indicating she was a junior officer. 340 jumped, and immediately hid away the case files from this fellow officer's view.

"Don't just sneak up like that, comrade officer! This is classified material!"

"Calm yourself, comrade sergeant," she said with a smile. "I have the same case file as you."

340 raised an eyebrow in surprise. She was under the impression she had been the only one assigned this mission, and the only other person she'd be working with was her handler in Vladivostok. If this spritely girl was on the same mission as her, why didn't the lieutenant colonel tell her? And who else was briefed on this mission?

"The same?" she repeated with curiosity.

"Yes. Here, let me show you."

The girl came to the adjacent seat and sat down beside her, showing a manila envelope filled with duplicates. The known home town of Renton Thurston, his bio, his profile, everything. How was it possible this girl was given the same mission as she, and she had known nothing about it? The lieutenant colonel never said anything about working as part of a team.

"You were given the mission to locate and kill this boy as well?" 340 asked.

"Yes, I was," the girl replied plainly.

"By who?"

The girl said nothing, but only looked again over the bio picture of their target. In truth, he was really an unresisting impulsive child, who had been prematurely subjected the horrors of the cruel, unforgiving world.

"I still am at a loss as to why this boy needs to be assassinated," 340 confessed. "Did the lieutenant colonel tell you why?"

"He couldn't give me clearance. I suppose our operational CO will tell us, though."

"That reminds me," 340 remembered, forgetting the proper etiquette required, "what unit are you from? What's your code number?"

The girl blushed in embarrassment.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Agent 271."

271 offered her hand to 340, which she shook lightly with a note of uncertainty in her eyes. For all she knew, this girl could be a spy rather than a team member.

"What oblast are you from?" 340 asked. (A/N: Oblast: An administrative division in most Slavic countries, including some of the Soviet Union, usually translated as "province" or "zone," depending on the context.)

"Alma-Ata Oblast. Kazakh Republic. And you, comrade?"

"Stalingrad Oblast…"

340's pupils contracted in suspicion that a provincial agent would be assigned such a high-order job as this. She felt something amiss, but thought nothing of it as 271 continued to engage her in innocent conversation between officers.

"How did you get the job?"

"I was given a call by the Red Army. They said they had a new assignment for me and I was to report to the lieutenant colonel in Stalingrad. How about you?"

"I was already in Stalingrad when the call came down," 340 recounted. "To tell you the truth, I was hoping for going back to my policeman's duty, but they would not have that, it seems. No matter."

271 and 340 both looked to the small photograph of the boy, pouring again over the innocence and repressed sorrow evident in his face. To think that this young lad who did not even hail from their country would rise to the status as a hero of the people, the symbol of Western support, and the inspiration to continue the struggle against the fascists. To think that even after all his great contributions to the national cause, he was fated to die. It seemed far too surreal for 340 to contemplate. That is when she turned to 271 in remembrance of her words.

"You said he was a boy with a grudge," 340 noted with inquisitive blue eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I heard from some officer that he didn't come to fight and help the cause," 271 replied. "Or rather, that wasn't his primary motivation."

"What _was _his motivation?"

271 looked around, searching for any prying eyes or ears that may be privy to their sensitive conversation. Once she knew it was safe, she whispered gently the sensitive information that immediately changed everything.

"Word has it that he came back for a girl he met in Stalingrad."

340's eyes widened in surprise. There was never any mention of a girl anywhere in the reports or by word of her comrades. It was assumed that he came for altruistic reasons, to help his comrades in arms when they needed it, and disappeared from the stage when his job was done. That he would come back for something like a girl changed the entire picture of how he was a hero of the people. 340 pressed on the matter, desperate to know more about her target. Perhaps this girl may give a clue about why the Lieutenant Colonel wanted him dead so badly.

"A girl? A girl he knew?"

"So the rumor goes. I don't know much about it either, but I heard the girl was someone he knew from his first visit to the Soviet Union."

"It must be a member of the Novikov family, then," 340 concluded, seeing pieces fit together. "The case files say he made contact with them during his first visit."

"Yes, that's it!" 271 chimed, armed with that revelation. "The girl was the youngest daughter of General Novikov. They spent a lot of time together as children during his first visit."

"If he came back for her, he must have taken her with him."

"So the rumor says. Perhaps that is why he's been targeted."

340 shook her head. No, simply helping someone escape from a warzone was not enough to earn death. True, he broke the law and illegally helped a girl cross the border, but at most it deserved a prison sentence, or an international tribunal. Then again, such a move would be unwise for public relations, especially since they still had an alliance to keep with the United States. War made things so utterly complicated.

"If he really was targeted because of something like illegal immigration, he wouldn't get a death sentence. That just makes this all the more mysterious."

"Well, 340," 271 quipped, "perhaps our CO will give us the details of why. We're arriving in Vladivostok now! Look!"

Both agents looked out the window and saw the station platform approaching. Finally their long journey was over, and not a moment too soon. 340 was getting tired of spending days upon days on the train. The station looked to be something out of a season's greeting card, as the snow had still not melted in Vladivostok, unsurprisingly to the both of them. Spring was approaching, and yet it still appeared as if winter was in full swing. The tempo of the engine's chuffing slowed as the train eased through the yard, and approached the station. 271 and 340 took that as their cue to gather their things and prepare to disembark. Soon, 340 reasoned, they would meet their commanding officer. Perhaps, she might also get some answers to why this boy had to be targeted.

271 retrieved from her seat a dark brown overcoat which she immediately threw on her person, covering her uniform. 340 in the meantime dressed lighter, draping over her shoulders a blue waterproof hooded cape, buckled with the emblem of the NKVD: a sword with a hammer and sickle superimposed in the center of the blade. She instinctively pulled the hood down over her head, covering her face from the view of any person who might threaten their mission. One could never be sure if there were spies anywhere.

As they passed through the railway yard, 340 could swear she heard the distant singing of children through the open windows. As she passed, she saw a troop of Pioneers, red neckerchiefs evident standing out against the crisp white snow, loading boxes onto a boxcar. No doubt, they were filled with munitions, food and water for the men fighting across the Siberian steppes and far away. The song she heard them sing was a common marching tune that had been struck up in the days since the war began.

_Apple and pear trees were blooming._

_O'er the river the fog merrily rolled._

_On the steep banks walked Katyusha,_

_On the high bank she slowly strode._

_As she walked, she sang a sweet song_

_Of her silver eagle of the steppe,_

_Of the one she loved so dearly,_

_And the one whose letters she had kept._

_Oh you song! Little song of a young girl,_

_Fly over the river and in the sunlight, go._

_And fly to my hero far from me,_

_From his Katyusha bring him a sweet hello._

_Let him remember this plain young girl,_

_And her sweet song like a dove,_

_As he stands guarding his proud nation,_

_So Katyusha will guard their love._

340 couldn't help but smile as she listened to the song fade away with the passing of the train. They were now going at less than 5 kilometers an hour as she gathered her necessities from her compartment. It was simply one change of clothes to better blend in with the civilian population, as well as her nightgown. Not much, but one had to travel light, lest they be weighed down from completing the mission. After 271 gathered her things, they met together in the vestibule, waiting for the train to stop.

"Did the lieutenant colonel tell you anything about our CO?" 271 asked.

"He did not," 340 replied in a unsmiling tone. "He gave me no details other than the target and where I had to go. Did he not give you any details?"

"Nothing. He only told me there would be others with me on this mission."

"Others?" 340 repeated with curiosity. "The lieutenant colonel never said anything about there being…_others_."

With that, the train gave a quick jolt as it ground to a halt. It almost thrashed them to the floor, but 340 and 271 managed to hold their stance by grabbing the walls of the car. Upon the train reaching a full stop, the doors to the outside opened, and revealed three girls, all in their early 20s, and all wearing uniforms of the NKVD.

The one in the center, who appeared to be the oldest of the three, had strange red eyes and her black hair held up behind her with a series of hairclips. She had a dark complexion, and her facial features made her look to be from Central Asia, much like 271. On her left was a girl with short orange-tinged hair done up in a double bun beneath her peaked cap, which cast a slight shade over her face and illuminated her hazel eyes that stared at the two of them with expectancy. Her complexion was lighter, looking to be of more European origin like 340. The girl on the right, who looked to be the youngest and subsequently least experienced, had her red hair cut short in bangs. In fact, one would say too short, as the hair was barely to her ears. She had short thick eyebrows of a matching color, with eyes of strong silver and a pale complexion, looking of Siberian origin.

The team, it seemed to 340, was quite diverse, even if they _were_ all female.

"Agents 271 and 340?" the black-haired girl asked.

"Yes?" 271 and 340 said in unison.

"I am Agent 12 and these are Agents 909 and 578. I assume you are here for the mission briefing regarding the assassination of Renton Thurston, da?"

"That is correct," 340 replied. "How do you know about this?"

She fully expected the answer that came from the two agents on either side of 12.

"We have been assigned to this mission by the Lieutenant Colonel as well," the orange-haired girl, 909, said plainly.

"We all were," the red-haired girl, 578, added. "It appears we are to be part of a squad to accomplish this."

"So I see," 271 noted as she and 340 stepped down from the passenger car.

340 turned to 12 and gazed at her with hard blue eyes. God only knew how many others were involved in this mission as well. Was the lieutenant colonel thinking of starting a war over this boy?

"Are there other agents involved in this operation, Agent 12?"

"Besides our commanding officer, no. Just the five of us."

"Good," she said with relief in her voice. "Any more, and we would have our own private army."

All the agents laughed as they headed out of the cold and into the warmth of the stationhouse, anxious to meet the commanding officer. They did not have to search far to find him upon entering. It was a young man with wild brown hair and eyes of dark chocolate that seemed to crave for power. He sat waiting on a bench, covered in a dark brown overcoat which hid his uniform: he was from the Red Army, and looked to be a decorated veteran judging from the medals pinned on his chest. The shoulder boards on his coat and the insignia on his collar denoted the rank of an officer, and glowed with a bright polish, as if they were brand new. The young officer looked up and saw them coming, and smiled expectedly.

"So, these are the agents the Lieutenant Colonel spoke of!" the officer said knowingly.

As the five girls approached him, he raised a hand, indicating for them to halt. They did so, and formed a line for review and inspection. As the officer rose, 340 suddenly realized how young the officer actually was: a mere child, no older than 18. Undoubtedly, a young man like this would have only risen to officer status in the direst of circumstances, much like how her situation turned out in the battle for Stalingrad herself. Officers suffered such high casualties that young men, sometimes inexperienced and ill-suited for combat, were thrust into high positions out of desperation.

As the young man reviewed each of them, 340 was now seriously questioning whether this officer had the tools or the will to lead. The Lieutenant Colonel could not seriously entrust the safe and efficient execution of the mission to this boy, barely older than the target! Was the Motherland really so desperate for officers it would turn to this boy for leadership? It was at that moment as she pondered these questions that the officer came to her, and she immediately felt weak in the knees.

The gaze from the boy's decadent chocolate brown eyes felt overwhelming, as if he could see right through her and peer into her soul. As she feared for her life in the dimly lit cellar in Stalingrad, being briefed by an officer who could have easily struck her down with the vodka bottle, here stood a boy that made her shake in her boots just from one long glare. The officer spoke.

"Recite to me your names, if you could, comrades."

"Comrade," 340 countered, "we are only authorized to give you our code numbers, sir."

"Very well then," the officer retorted with agitation. "What are your code numbers then?"

Each agent stepped forward and recited before retreating back into formation.

"I am Agent 340 Internal Affairs, formerly of the 10th Rifle Division."

"Agent 12 of Internal Affairs, South Ossetian Autonomous Oblast, Georgian Republic."

"Agent 271 of Internal Affairs, Alma-Ata Oblast, Kazakhstan Republic."

"Agent 909 of Internal Affairs, Novosibirsk Oblast."

"Agent 578 of Internal Affairs, Samara Oblast."

The officer nodded in understanding, and the proceeded with his next question.

"Which one of you is the highest ranking?"

Silence possessed all five of them, as if each was afraid to subject herself to the officer's scrutiny.

"Come on, now! How am I to have a second-in-command if I don't know which one of you is highest ranking?"

340 cautiously stepped forward, not sure if wind or fear of retribution filled her cape as it flowed behind her.

"I am, sir. I hold the rank of Sergeant of State Security."

The officer turned to her and she once again was struck by the hard stare of his brown eyes. How this boy had risen to such a position as this, and how the Lieutenant Colonel could entrust the mission to him, was beyond her means of discernment.

"Eta tak?" he said with an ounce of arrogance. "Where are you from?" (A/N: Is that so?)

"I came from the Stalingrad Oblast."

The officer laughed and the light reflected off his eyes.

"Stalingrad, you say? I am from there myself. Very well, you may attend upon me. If anything should happen to me, you will take charge of the mission. Tochna?"

"Tak tochna, sir."

The officer nodded, and returned to all five of the agents. Before doing so, however, he removed his fur hat and fixed his matted brown hair. So young, she thought. It was all she could think of as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Allow me to introduce myself, comrades. My name is Chertov…"

He pointed to the shoulder boards on his coat, indicating his rank.

"…_Junior Lieutenant_ Chertov. I am your commanding officer for this operation. The Lieutenant Colonel has chosen you all based on your individual skills and abilities, which will aid us in our cause. I trust he gave all of you the details of the mission. We are to infiltrate the United States and find and kill the boy known as the American Russian: Renton Ivanovich Thurston. Now, I know that many of you may have personal feelings about assassinating a hero of the people…"

He paused, and 340 instinctively knew why. Surely every agent beside her had reservations about an undertaking that seemed counterintuitive, if not downright treasonous. Who would think that ordering the death of a hero, an inspiration to the people to continue the struggle against fascism, a symbol of Western support and Allied solidarity, and such a young boy at that, was even remotely a good idea? What purpose would his death serve, other than martyrdom? What would be gained from losing their champion?

"…however," Chertov continued, "you will all have to put that aside for now. What happens on this mission is of great importance to the Motherland, and our future _after_ the end of this war. Believe me when I say your actions will not go unnoted, and that is regardless of your origin, gender, or creed. We cannot afford failure. Not anymore. Do I make myself clear, comrades?"

"Yes, sir," they all returned in unison.

"Vaprosov?" (A/N: Questions?)

Silence gripped them, but it was short-lived, as now 340 saw this opportunity to speak her mind, for once in her career as a servant of the state.

"Comrade Lieutenant?" she asked quietly.

Chertov turned to her, his gaze stabbing through her being.

"What about Thurston makes him so dangerous that he has to die?"

The officer stepped closer, and 340 feared her very career on the line with the determined stare of Chertov.

"Speak up," he said. "I couldn't hear you."

"I said," she repeated, "there _has_ to be a reason for why the Lieutenant Colonel, or anyone else for that matter, would want him dead."

"I am not at liberty to give you that information right now, 340. But you must trust me when I say he is a dangerous young boy. And he _must_ die. In time, you will come to know everything. All of you will."

340 said nothing, and tacitly accepted that she wasn't going to get any information as to why this boy had to die. At least, not now. Evidently the Lieutenant Colonel did not trust _anyone_ with such knowledge. No matter, she thought. Perhaps after the deed was done, she could get what she needed to know. Chertov returned to the rest of them and looked to see if any more questions were to be answered.

"Yescho vaprosov?" (A/N: Any other questions?)

"Vaprosov nyet, sir," 271 said abruptly. (A/N: No questions, sir.)

"Ochen' kharasho," Chertov said smiling. "Then come, comrades. Our ship is waiting." (A/N: Very well.)

The five agents followed Chertov out the door and into the city, heading in the direction of the wharf. There, a ship would carry them over the seas and bring a start to the mission that would be the most defining moment in their lives. 340 still felt reservations as a cold wind immediately struck her in the face, and filled her cape that flowed behind her. Now that she saw their officer was a mere child, no older than the target, it only raised more questions than answers. However, the fact she had companions backing her in this mission picked her spirits up slightly. If anything went wrong, she might convince the others to leave with her. It was a long shot, but so was this mission.

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**A/N: Next update should be this weekend assuming everything goes according to plan. Also look forward to seeing Talho for the first time in the upcoming chapter. People have been asking me in private messages about Eureka 7: AO the sequel, and what I think of the people writing stories about them. I guess they think it's competition of some sort. I'll be up front right now: I don't give a damn about AO. People want to write about it? Fine. I'm not going to. I'm not even going to talk about it. I'm not writing this for any other reason than my own enjoyment so I don't care about any "competition." Writing should be done for fun, not out of pressure.**

**In the meantime read and review and I appreciate your input.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Well you know the phrase, better late than never. I'm sorry with how long it took me to upload this. I've been very busy with preparing for the move to Washington DC for my new job. I'm actually posting this from my hotel room up in Lake Tahoe right now, and tomorrow I go on to West Wendover Nevada, near the Utah border. It'll take me about a week to cross the country, so I won't be able to update much on the road. However, enough excuses. We got the chapter, and it has Holland and Talho meeting for the first time. Hope you guys enjoy it and be sure to review!**

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**Chapter Nine **

**March 21****st****, 1943**

**Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean**

The freighter on which they all rode wasn't designed for so many passengers (six, including their officer), so the agents had to make do with the quarters given to them. Chertov, however, did not wish to impose on any of the girls who were now working under him and so often was found in some makeshift bed. He was wont of the lack of accommodations for sleep, after spending a year and a half at the front and devoid of any comforts. It was not something 340 was going to argue with, since it left each of the agents with one bunk. She was sleeping very comfortably, remembering her life in Stalingrad as a law enforcer before this business started. In those days, she would have been lucky to run into counterrevolutionary activities, but most of her duties involved tracking down petty criminals and keeping vagrants off the street. With the coming of war, everything suddenly changed.

There was a sudden and desperate call to arms, one neither she nor her comrades could ignore. The firestorm swept them all to service for the Motherland, and she bore witness to horrors no girl her age would normally see. She saw friends she had made with the force die before her eyes. She saw men blown apart by a single shell. She saw children crying for their mothers as they bled on the battlefield, alone and helpless. It seemed like a nightmare to even contemplate.

Just as she was in the midst of dreaming about a nice patrolman she met in Stalingrad when she received a nudge on the shoulder.

"340?"

She groaned, and turned on her side, not wanting to be disturbed. However, a night of peaceful sleep was not to be. She received another nudge to her shoulder and now she lazily opened her eyes to find Agent 271, the closest person she could call a friend on this mission. It was a relationship based out of physical proximity: they met each other on the train. They sat together at meals. They slept on the same side of the compartment. Truthfully, 340 knew nothing about 271 other than her code number and her origin. They were miles apart, much like how the entire team was assembled from all corners of the Soviet Union.

"What is it, 271?" she grumbled. "I was having a good dream too…"

"Chertov says we're approaching American waters. We have to be ready to leave the ship."

"Skol'ko seichas vremeni?" (A/N: What time is it now?)

"Seichas dva chasa." (A/N: It's two o'clock.)

340 groaned again, remembering how she didn't have to wake up at such outrageous hours before the war. How much times had changed. She shooed 271 away to leave her to change. Rising slowly, she looked to see the entire compartment was empty except for the two of them. Evidently all the other agents had left and changed in preparation for this moment. As she rose from her bunk to change out of her nightgown and into her uniform, 340 was faced again with her present circumstances.

She had been roped into this mission by a lieutenant colonel who all but threatened her, and was now being commanded by an officer who was surely no older than the target himself, and who seemed in as ill command of his senses than the lieutenant colonel was to be going after a mere boy. Still, she was a servant of the state above all else. Part of her job meant carrying out assassinations. Whether it was criminals causing problems, counterrevolutionaries, or otherwise enemies of the state, an order was an order. Even if it meant…if it meant…

…did that mean she was willing to kill a child?

She willed the terribly heart wrenching thought away as she pulled her light blue cape and hood over her shoulders. Those were questions she would face another day. Surely the assassination would not be quick; they rarely were. She would have to assess patterns in behavior, movement, human associations, and ascertaining the location of a target before moving in. Perhaps in the time that would come, she would have a better sense of why this boy had to die, and if the mission was worth it at all. In any case, she had to go along with it for now. It was still too early to discern anything yet.

340 opened the door and turned out into the long corridors, searching for her co-agents. The only sound that reflected her internal struggles came from the humming of the engines deep within the bowels of the ship. Under her feet she felt the deck rock from side to side, occasionally gently pushing her into the wrought-iron walls. However, they were less violent than when they were on the open sea, where the hull cut through tall waves as finely as knife cuts a thread. There she remembered many a night on rough waters when all in the compartment were pitched and thrown around like ragdolls. The seas were calmer now after five days.

She opened a door to the outside decks, and was immediately greeted by the cold night wind, which whipped at her cape. The night was clear with a bright full moon shining above them, illuminating the seas that seemed to be filled with dancing diamonds. There was not a cloud in the inky black sky, as the night was lit up with the myriads of stars that silently shone and twinkled before 340's sky blue eyes. The air was peacefully still, the only sound being the soft lapping of waves at the hull of the ship, which had almost all of its lights out except for the bridge. Even the freighter seemed to be in repose under this blanket of darkness.

On the boat deck, 340 spotted the silhouettes of her co-agents and her officer, waving for her to come to them. How long had they been waiting? And for what purpose? It was clear, she thought as she trotted up the steps to the boat deck, that they had not yet reached a port. As far as she could see, they had not even crossed the Golden Gate. What reason did Chertov have for waking them all up so early? The answer was apparent to her as she reached the deck.

A longboat had been swung out and lowered in preparation for launch. Chertov sat by one of the davits, and had an impatient glare in his eyes as if he was being held up. The rest of the agents had evidently long prepared for this moment; they were fully dressed in their uniforms, and even their matching capes and hoods. All eyes stared at 340 with a note of expectancy.

"It's about damn time you showed up!" Chertov barked. "We are ready to set off. Into the boat, comrades. All of you!"

Without a word, all the agents filed into the longboat, and Chertov took a place near the tiller. His brown eyes cut through the darkness of the night and spoke to the agents, with the two younger ones in particular.

"578. 909. Lower away."

"Yes sir," they returned in unison.

Slowly, in fits and starts, the two agents carefully dropped the boat from the deck and into the dark cold waters below. The falls creaked and groaned quietly like a fussy old woman from their combined weight. An awkward silence possessed all as the sound of ocean waves lapping at the ship's hull grew closer and closer to them. The further down they went, the darker their surroundings became, as the full moon was hidden behind the freighter, shrouding all of them in a veil. Only Chertov's lust-filled eyes stood out in the darkness, glaring off into the distance, towards the coastline off in the distance.

"Comrade Lieutenant?" 340 asked, her words cutting through the stillness.

"What is it, Agent 340?" Chertov asked, obviously agitated.

"Does the rest of the ship know about us?"

"They stopped the ship and gave us the boat. What does that tell you?"

340 instinctively shut her mouth as the boat's keel touched the dark water at last. After detaching the falls from the boat, all the agents shifted out the oars, and began rowing across the waters and away from the ship. Chertov simply manned the tiller, steering in whatever direction he willed them to go, and ordered the agents to keep rowing until they reached land. Not a word was spoken by any of them, with the exception of Chertov encouraging them to keep pulling away at the oars. Secrecy was key to this operation. They managed to get past the Coast Guard undetected just by being on a Lend-Lease ship. The last thing they could do now is arouse suspicion from a bystander.

"Stay in the shadows," Chertov whispered.

With that, he guided them underneath the towering curtains of darkness that veiled them and their longboat.

Agents 271 and 340 looked up, as they were sitting on the same thwart, and gazed at the monolithic skyscraper of blackness that made their sanctuary. They looked to be tall cliffs with broad faces towards the sea. On the top of these cliffs they could spot sparse trees and waves of grass swaying in the spring wind. Such a stunning and dramatic sight, unlike anything they saw back in Russia.

"Ani krasiviye…" 271 muttered as she pulled on her oar. (A/N: They're beautiful...)

"Those are the Marin Headlands, comrades," Chertov spoke, "Lovely scenery, that, no?"

"To think the American Russian grew up around these," 909 said aloud, looking up at the towering bluffs.

"We're not here on vacation, 909," 12 reminded her sternly. "We are here on a mission."

"Doesn't mean we can't look," 578 countered as she brought her oar around.

"Nyet razgavora," 340 ordered. "Keep pulling." (A/N: No talk.)

A deathly silence again possessed all of them as they continued to row. They skirted the coastline, taking note to stay under the shadow of the bluffs. At times, the situation was harrowing as the waves crashed into the earthen walls with all the force of a hurricane. Chertov maneuvered the longboat away from the jagged rocks along the edge, fearing they would run aground. It soon became apparent to all five agents that the intention was not to go into the harbor, as they saw the Golden Gate Bridge, lit up against the spring night sky, fade away behind Chertov. 909 asked their commanding officer quietly as she pulled on her oar,

"Sir, where exactly are you taking us?"

"A beach. Any place with sand where we can disembark."

They rowed on, past the headlands that stood like tall sentinels guarding entrance of a fortress. The tall bluffs gave way to mounds of dirt, grass, and sand, indicating they were getting close to a beach. A rogue wave crashed against the hull of the longboat and almost capsized it. While the younger, more inexperienced agents panicked, Chertov took it as a cue. He pulled hard on the tiller, and forced the boat to move to starboard…into the path of successive waves.

"Sir, what are you—?!" 340 protested

"There's the shore! Look over there!" 12 interrupted, pointing off into the distance.

Sure enough, there were signs of the approaching beach, guarded on either side with high sand dunes. The wind picked up and carried the sand into the air, creating a small whirlwind on the beach, dancing like a maiden at a gala ball. It was so mesmerizing for the agents they almost didn't notice the wave breaking against the bow of the longboat. The force of the wave sent the boat up off the water two feet before coming down again with a splash. 340 and 271 received a spray against their capes, as if the wave was a priest baptizing them with holy water. Despite the resistance from the waves and the outgoing tide, Chertov urged them all onward, onward to the shore and to the place that would commence their operation.

"Pull! Pull, blast you!"

The boat thrashed up and down the further they drew to shore, their only guide being beach's the glimmering white sand. Such a pristine and lovely sight, a beach still and peaceful in the dead of night. A wave swept under the keel of the boat, and brought them to shore, and Chertov immediately ordered the boat vacated.

"Ubiraityes', tovarishi!" (A/N: Get out, comrades!)

All the agents vacated the boat and stepped onto the shore, not minding the cold sensation of the water swiftly moving beneath their feet. 340 reached for a rope in front end of the longboat and threw one end of it to her comrades. Chertov, remaining in the longboat, tied the other end of it to the bow, and all five agents pulled with as much might at their disposal. Chertov quickly left the boat as well, and slowly moved past the line of straining girls, keeping an eye out for any passerby that could jeopardize the mission. The immense weight of the longboat made the task of beaching it a difficult one. Nevertheless, the other agents gave words of encouragement and impetus to each other to get the job done.

"Potyanitye!" 12 called out. "Davai! Davai!" (A/N: Pull! Come on! Come on!)

"No Russian!" 340 responded after another strong tug on the rope. "Speak English! Only English!"

Chertov chuckled on 340's command.

"That is good advice, 340," he said in English with an obvious Slavic accent. "But I wonder how well all of you speak it."

340 said nothing, and only continued to pull the longboat in along with her comrades. She felt his gaze as they heaved with all their strength, inching the boat further inland. So many questions bombarded her mind, and she was left with few answers to all of them. Further evidence mounted before her that the benefits of this mission were questionable. Speculation whirled around in her head about the true intentions of their commanding officer. Why was the American Russian commanded to die? What was there to gain from his demise other than martyrdom? What was a young teenaged officer doing leading the mission? Why was the Lieutenant Colonel so obsessed with seeing the boy dead?

"I still understand none of this," 340 muttered under her breath with another pull on the rope.

"With time, 340," 271 whispered encouragingly, "we all will. Chertov said so himself."

"I hope you are right, 271."

With one final heave from the five girls, the longboat came ashore, beached far enough inland that there were no worries about it being swept out by the tides. If, heaven forbid, anything went wrong, this longboat on this plot of beach would be their only means of escape. With the business of beaching finished, all agents gathered the equipment necessary for their mission from the longboat. A radio kit. Weapons. Suitcases with civilian clothes. All things needed for a covert assassination. Chertov then addressed the girls, his expectant, leering grin cutting through the night.

"Comrades, welcome to the United States of America."

»»»»»

**March 22****nd****, 1943**

**Bellforest, California**

Two militiamen strolled down the busy main street, observing all manner of vignettes and scenes playing out on the small stage of their little valley town. One, an officer, walked on ahead as if intent on leaving the other, an enlisted girl. The girl gave the appearance of a dog dragged by a leash, as her eyes threw a cutting gaze to her superior whenever his back was turned. Their uniforms, like the rest of the local militia, was taken from Imperial Russian influence, evoking a sense of romance of the days before the violent October Revolution that shattered everything in old Mother Russia. Khaki green in color, consisting of a pullover tunic and matching breeches.

The officer was in his mid-thirties, and wore a Sam Browne belt that crossed behind his back, holding on his left hip a sword and sheath, and on his right a .45 caliber pistol tucked inside a holster. His shoulder straps bore the insignia of a second lieutenant, consisting of one gold bar on either side of the strap. Every step the officer took his boots clopped, as if he was a cowboy wearing spurs. Beneath his peaked cap was a full head of slicked light brown hair, dissecting brown eyes and a toothy smile beneath a neatly trimmed full mustache.

The girl was in her mid-teens, and she wore a brown ammunition belt across her waist, and instead of boots wore tight leggings above her brown shoes. Over her back was slung her weapon of choice: an M1 Garand rifle, though she and any other militiaman had little need for such weapons in this town. Her ebony black hair hung to her shoulders, with a thin renegade strand hanging between her strong hazel eyes. On top of her head she wore a peaked cap, bearing the emblem of their newly adopted nation, the one that took them in when their own had betrayed them. The only distinction of rank was a single chevron on her sleeves, denoting the rank of a lowly private first class.

"Ah, Yukieva, listen!" the lieutenant called jovially. "Do you hear what I hear?"

"No, Lieutenant Denisov," the private first class answered with a degree of irritation. "What do you hear?"

"Look over there, will you?"

The private first class turned to her right and saw a large crowd of small children, the age of the eldest never exceeding 10, walking towards the local grade school. They all seemed quite happy, laughing and skipping with each step as they filed through passersby on the way to school. Denisov laughed.

"Such a lovely sound, is it not, Yukieva? The merry laughter of innocent children on their way to school!"

Denisov fished out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and placed one in his mouth. He searched his person for a match or a lighter while continuing his musing.

"School. A great institution if ever there was one. What would this blasted world be without it?"

As he found a match to light the end of his cigarette, the private first class responded to the lightweight philosophical banter. It was something common between the two since she had joined the militia little over a year prior.

"Yet, for everything we learn in class, we keep making the same mistakes over and over."

"Right you are, Yukieva," Denisov said, nodding ruefully. "Such a sad truth, that."

They turned a corner as the hazel eyes of the private first class gazed around town, keeping a lookout for any potential wrongdoer or suspicious activity. Despite the prospect of an attack by the Axis forces on the home front to be incredibly low, the militia was given the task of keeping the peace and maintaining local security. This patrol was something humdrum for her by now. This valley town, this little hamlet where she and her parents had lived for as far back as she could remember, was quiet, sometimes too quiet for her liking. If it was not a patrol, it was cleaning duty. If it was not cleaning duty, it was getting coffee for the officers. If it hadn't been for her parents pushing her, then she…

"Tell me, Private," Denisov interrupted her musing.

"Private _first class_, sir," she corrected.

"Whatever. Would you enlighten me as to why you are not in school, like the other children?"

"I get the education I need from home, sir. Besides which, I enjoy serving my country like this."

Denisov raised an eyebrow at her, suspecting a lack of sincerity.

"Is that how you _really_ feel?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Simply the truth, Private First Class Yukieva. Why are you really in the militia?"

"I would think you know, sir, considering your relationship with my father."

Denisov laughed knowingly, noting a kernel of truth in the girl's statement.

"Ah, yes. You father, God bless him, saw an opportunity for you here, and took it upon me to give you a recommendation for a position with us."

"And yet I am still stuck on cleaning duty every Wednesday…" she grumbled.

The lieutenant apparently caught her mutterings and swirled around to face her with flaming brown eyes, like earth set afire.

"Private First Class Talho Yukieva, you forget yourself!"

He stomped over to her, and what was once a rod's distance between them became a hair's breadth.

"You may be the only daughter of a former noble family, but I am still your commanding officer. Pray you don't forget that."

"And face a discharge? Heaven forbid."

Denisov smiled in approval, and returned to their usual rounds. Talho, however, kept throwing daggers at the back of his head as he continued his musings. On and on he went, waxing on about things as varied as the number of fish in the sea. She bore it tacitly, long accustomed to his rants on politics, war, nature, life, even things as mundane as the town itself. And its inhabitants.

"You hear the latest about that Renton Thurston?" Denisov asked as they entered a general store.

"Sir?"

"Come, now, Yukieva, surely you've heard the rumor."

"I don't keep up with local gossip, Lieutenant."

Denisov took one last puff on his cigarette before throwing it into a nearby ashtray and facing her.

"Our little war hero managed to find himself a girlfriend!" he said with a smile, his teeth stained by the tobacco. "And rumor has it…"

He ushered her closer, as if to swear secrecy.

"…it's that girl he brought home from Stalingrad."

Truthfully, Talho cared little about the local town hero. In truth, she was rather envious of him, despite never meeting the boy. He had managed to escape the monotony and tedium of this town and venture outside to see actual combat, a hope she dreamed of fulfilling one day. Sadly, in the many months since America's entry into the war and throughout the many ups and downs of fortunes overseas, her regiment, this militia, was never given any orders to move. It had been more than a year since she first signed up to this establishment when she was a chit of a girl at 15, and she had nothing to show for her enlistment. If there was a way, any at all, out of this life and into the rigors of actual combat, she'd take it without a moment's hesitation.

Perhaps, Talho thought to herself as she and her lieutenant moseyed out of the general store and back onto the cobblestone street, she could find a way out of the militia, or a transfer to a unit that would be deployed overseas. The question is which unit? To which theatre of war? And just how long would it take before the war was over?

"I was a mere corporal when Thurston came into the world," Denisov started again. "His mother and him were the prettiest sight you could ever hope to see! Such a shame she died when he was so young."

"You knew them, sir?" Talho asked with marked interest as she slung her rifle over her shoulder.

"Not particularly well," Denisov tempered. "I knew the mother a little, and the father always had crops to sell in the market. It was after the mother died when his family came here. Had to sell the farm, poor soul."

A few hours passed as they continued patrol through the town. She carried on in her role as Denisov's sounding board; true, his ramblings proved grating, but at the same time he was her benefactor. The sole reason she even had this job. God help her if she committed some faux pas and was forced to go back to her parents on a matter of discharge. Her father especially wouldn't forgive her for it. It was about mid-afternoon when after much traversing about in search of a cafe to have lunch when Denisov led her to a tavern near the square.

"How are your parents these days, Yukieva?"

"As well as they can be," she returned. "Father is busy with bills, and Mother doesn't come home at night from Marinship often enough."

"We're at war. That's just indicative of the times, private."

"Private _first class_, sir."

Denisov held a hand up, and his brown eyes suddenly narrowed to a razor sharp focus on something across the street. He appeared to be staring someone down, calling upon the force of his mere gaze to subdue a ne'er-do-well. Then he motioned for Talho to look across the street herself. Talho's hazel eyes did so, and she found nothing out of the ordinary. Small mom-and-pop stores lining the sidewalk. A birch tree providing shade for a few weary pedestrians. A woman leaving a florist with a bouquet of white roses.

"What do you see, Lieutenant?"

"Look there. By the bookstore."

She turned her gaze to said locale, and saw what appeared to be a young boy, leaning on the clapboard wall of the store, and looked to be asleep. His face was obscured by his stance, and didn't give one hint of maliciousness. But Denisov eyed him with the piercing, cutting gaze one looks upon a nefarious troublemaker.

"A vagrant," he hissed to her.

Talho looked at him as if he was crazy.

"Pardon, sir?"

"A vagrant. Get rid of him."

"Lieutenant," she protested, "he's just sitting there. He's not doing anything wrong."

"There's no loitering in this part of town, private first class!" Denisov snapped. "Now do as you're told!"

"Where should I take him?"

"There's a homeless shelter on Fremont Boulevard. Take him there."

Denisov made his way into the tavern with a ringing of the bell on top of the door. Talho turned to him in shock, aghast that her superior would leave her there to do the work herself.

"Where are you going, sir?"

Denisov looked to her with plain brown eyes, as if such a question didn't need an answer.

"To get a drink."

With that, the door shut in front of Talho's face, and she was confronted, like so many times before, with the knowledge that this was grunt work she had to do herself. She turned on her heel with a huff and crossed the road, waiting until Denisov was surely out of earshot to mutter her disgust.

"Svoloch." (A/N: Bastard.)

Upon reaching the other side of the road, she got a closer look at the vagrant that aggravated Denisov. What struck her first is how young he was, easily no more than 17. The boy's grey hair was disheveled and tangled, oily from what must easily be weeks, even months without a proper bathing. He wore knitted fingerless gloves, which betrayed his grubby hands, almost black from dirt and grime. Over his shoulders was a grey coat, tattered at the hem and the collar torn on the left as if cut by a knife. Underneath the coat was a yellow scarf, a bleached white shirt, and black corduroys tucked into matching boots.

What on earth was a boy her age doing on the street?

Talho swung her Garand off her shoulder and gently nudged the young tramp with the muzzle to get his attention.

"Sir?"

She heard a small, low groan from him.

"Sir, I hate to do this to you, but you can't stay here."

The boy looked up at her, and she was met with melancholy sky blue eyes. They spoke volumes to her without one syllable uttered from his lips. Words of hardship, wandering, and days upon weeks of loneliness. Even without knowing where he came from or even his full name, she already felt an inkling of pity for him. Still, as much as she hated doing this, she had a job to do. Orders were orders.

"There's no loitering here, sir. You have to leave."

The boy blinked, and there was a moment of silence between the two of them. The only sound that broke the stillness was the distant chirping of blue jays. He reached for a black hat at his side and held it out with both hands to her, begging. His words suddenly betrayed everything about him.

"Lishnyeye dyen'gi, pazhalusta?" (A/N: Spare change please?)

Talho's eyes contracted, as those three words in her language suddenly indicated to her this boy was not just a mere beggar. He was more than a wandering drifter. Something was not right here.

"Viy nye amerikanskii?" she asked in her native tongue. (A/N: You're not American?)

The boy's eyes widened at the Talho's comprehension of their shared language. She was a native Russian, a fellow child of the Motherland. What was a Russian doing all the way out here?

"Nyet," the boy responded slowly. "Viy govoritye pa-russki?" (A/N: You speak Russian?)

"Da. Govoryu."

"Akh," he sighed with relief, "zdarova. I was starting to fear I'd never find someone here that could speak my language." (A/N: Ah, good.)

"There are plenty of immigrants around. What are you doing way out here?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Looking?" Talho laughed, slinging her rifle back over her shoulder. "I'd say you've found someone!"

She offered the boy her hand, like a priest offering some damned soul a path to salvation. Surely, she thought, there had to be something more to this boy. He was _not_ just a vagrant. He was a lost soul, scared and confused in a world that was foreign to him. The boy, seeing a chance at a better life, took her by the hand and he stood up. She noticed, however, a slight struggle with his rising.

It was at that moment when a faded blotch of red on his coat stuck out to him, along with what appeared to be a bullet hole.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

The boy looked at his wound, and sighed.

"I got it last month," he said indifferently. "It's nothing."

"Like hell it isn't!" she countered. "I'll take you to a hospital. There's one down the road."

"Look, girlie," the boy retorted with a note of irritation, "if you want to help me out, just tell me where I can find Renton Thurston."

Now even more questions were raised in Talho's mind. How does this young Russian transplanted here across the ocean know a boy like Renton? True, he traveled to Stalingrad twice now, but it was impossible for this boy to be familiar with him. Unless…

"I…I know _about_ him," Talho replied slowly. "Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him, and I have to find him! It's really important that I find him quickly!"

"Why?"

The boy looked around, his grey hair swishing from side to side. Who could be listening in on them as they speak?

"It's a long story," he whispered. "I promise I will explain everything, but I need to find him first!"

"I don't know where he lives, I'm sorry. But I know someone who _can_ help you. Come with me."

She took him by the hand, and led him down the sidewalk, in the direction of downtown.

"Hey, wait! Wait! Where are we going?"

"To the militia office," Talho said, looking back on her newly found nomadic tagalong. "They can help you find him."

So it was that this little recruit took this little beggar through town, past shops and homes that looked better placed in a dollhouse catalog. Across paved roads and sidewalks of cobblestone. Shuffling by passersby of various origins. Some longtime residents who witnessed the ebbs and flows of their country. Others, wanderers like him, who came to this place in search of hope.

»»»»»

The major, decked out in full dress uniform, sat behind his desk eyeing the young girl and the scruffy vagrant she had brought in. His green eyes gleaned over the boy with a note of suspicion, and a glance of disappointment was cast upon the private first class. The militia was not in the business of taking in hobos off the street, especially when there were institutions for such people. He rubbed his white goatee intently as he leaned back in his chair, peering behind his glasses as Talho tried to explain everything.

"He's obviously not from this country, Major Volkov!" she pleaded, making her case. "He traveled God only knows how many miles from Russia to find Renton Thurston!"

"Thurston, you say?" Volkov repeated with curiosity. "So you're saying this vagrant _knows_ the boy?"

"He says he does, sir. I've tried to ask him before, but he says it would take too long to explain."

The major turned his eyes back on the young drifter picked up from the street, and immediately spoke in an interrogative tone.

"How do you know Renton Thurston?"

The boy tilted his head and his blue eyes blinked in confusion. He slowly formed some basic words to communicate his ill comprehension.

"Sorry, sir…English…I…no English."

"He can only speak Russian, sir," Talho reiterated. "There _has _to be a reason for that!"

The major removed his glasses and produced a white notepad and a pen to write. He again addressed the boy.

"What is your name?" he asked in Russian.

The boy hesitated for a moment, but received a nudge on his injured shoulder from Talho. He winced slightly from the contact of his wound.

"Prodolzhai," she coaxed. "Tell him your name." (A/N: Go on.)

The boy cleared his throat and spoke. His voice was deep for one so young.

"K-Novikov," he said hesitantly. "Holland Petrovich Novikov."

"When were you born?" Volkov continued.

"19th of May, 1926."

"Where are you from?"

"S-Stalingrad."

At that, the pen dropped to the floor and all went quiet in the room. This boy was from Stalingrad? That martyred city the American Russian fought in alongside their brethren? It was certainly unexpected, to say the least, and only added more evidence to Talho's claim that there was something more to this drifter.

"THE Stalingrad?" a sergeant asked.

"What other Stalingrad is there?" Talho quipped in response. "I told you there was something more to this!"

Volkov leaned back in his chair again in thought. It was not every day when a Russian émigré comes from a battlefield. And it was of even lesser occurrence when that Russian claims to know the local war hero who made his name on that battlefield. Despite all of that, however, this vagrant could easily be an escapee from a local asylum, with all these so-called connections conjured out of his head in delirium. Silent wars seemed to wage in the major's head, when a captain spoke up.

"Sir, permission to speak freely."

"Granted, Captain Grey."

"Why don't we call up Renton Thurston and have him come here?"

"And risk this vagrant harming him?!"

"At least we'll know if he's telling the truth. We can hear it from Thurston himself."

Volkov paused for a moment, and nodded, seeing the soundness in the plan.

"Very well. Yukieva, take him to the brig out back."

Talho immediately stepped forward in protest.

"The brig?! But you said that—"

"He needs to wait somewhere until Thurston comes. Until then, you are to keep watch over him."

Talho wanted to protest her superiors treating this wanderer like a common criminal, but knew in her heart she could not. Even though she was trusting enough of this young boy, her officers clearly were not. How could they trust him, a boy who didn't even speak English, came from their home, and claimed to know a war hero?

With a note of reluctance, Talho saluted Volkov and motioned for the boy to follow her. Through a backdoor and past the desks and offices of various executives and administrators, she led him through an open field, smelling of a strange mixture of earth and asphalt. The boy's blue eyes studied in wonder at the sights that passed the two of them. A shooting range with bull's-eyes. Crates carrying munitions and rations. Stacks of weapons of various types. To an inexperienced eye, it was the training ground for would-be soldiers before marching into combat. To Talho, it was just her workplace, filled with tedium and frustration.

On the other side of the grounds was a small stone building in the shape of a cube. The white sign above the door read in black letters **CELLS**, indicating a place for holding felons. As Talho reached for the door, she passed by two lounging enlisted men, both in their mid-twenties. Both laughed in apparent derision at the young recruit as she opened the door.

"Leave it to the rookie to bring in extra trash!"

"Hey, kid, looking for someone to read you a bedtime story?"

Talho said nothing and only closed the wrought iron door behind her, escorting the young ruffian to an empty cell on the right.

"Get in," she coaxed unaffectedly.

"Why put me here?" Holland asked, taken aback by the cell. "Did I commit a crime by wandering the streets?"

"The officers don't want to hold you in the building while you wait."

Holland reluctantly entered, and sat down on what could only be called a cot. Talho slowly closed the door to the cell with a clang, and both were left alone in the empty jailhouse. Many days it was like this, and the militia was frequently strained to find an offender to lock up. Truthfully, she was rather grateful sometimes for the town being so quiet. She didn't have to worry about being caught in a gang fight or in a shootout with gun-toting criminals. There was comfort in a town where everything felt so predictable.

She looked at her watch. Quarter past one o'clock. School was not due to let out until three today, so it would be some time before the revered Renton Thurston came by to see if this ragamuffin was indeed a friend of his. That was not even counting if he had work today. Now that she thought of it, she knew very little about the now legendary boy. Did he go to school like other children? Did he work? Where does he live?

Surely none of those questions would be answered today, she reasoned. A boy as well-respected as he surely wouldn't pay mind to a lowly militia soldier like her. With nothing else to do and the prospect of a long wait ahead of them both, they stared talking again.

"I'm sorry about the accommodations," Talho lamented, swinging her Garand off her shoulder. "The officers are all stubborn bastards like that."

Holland shrugged as he stretched out on the cot.

"It's fine," he muttered unaffectedly. "Certainly better than sleeping on the streets."

"How did you get all the way out here, anyway? It couldn't have been easy, coming from a place like Stalingrad."

"Believe me, it wasn't. Had to fight tooth and nail to get out. I'm still amazed I got out at all."

Talho turned, and leaned on her rifle while staring at her newly found ragamuffin friend with strong, entreating hazel eyes.

"Who are you, really? And how do you know Renton Thurston?"

The boy hesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to share his true relationship with the hero.

"Well you know my name," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Holland Petrovich Novikov. As for how I know Renton…I'm just an old friend. I'm a kid who lost his home, and needs his help. I'm just trying to warn him about something coming. Something terrible."

"What forced you out of Stalingrad?"

"I was betrayed by someone I knew. Someone who hated me…and Renton."

Talho raised an eyebrow at that. How could someone from Stalingrad hate the boy that came to their aid when it seemed America was not committed to the alliance? The thought of any Stalingrad native hating the American Russian seemed impossible to even fathom.

"That kid is a hero! Who could possibly hate him?"

"The same thought occurred to me," Holland acknowledged, chuckling, "many times."

"So why does someone hate him, then? What reason could that person have?"

"I wish I knew. Sadly, all I do know is there is someone who hates him, perhaps far more than we all love him."

Holland turned on his side and scratched his back, before coughing. It was a hacking cough, the kind one gets when one has a debilitating flu and rendered utterly immobile from exhaustion. Talho looked at him in concern. At that moment, she noticed how gaunt he was, as if he had not eaten anything in weeks, perhaps months. How long had this boy gone without nourishment while on the run from the Motherland, and wandering the streets searching for the hero?

"Are you alright? Would you like something to eat or drink?"

"I wouldn't mind some water, now that you mention it."

Talho nodded, and reached for her canteen. She stuck it through the bars on the door and reached out to Holland.

"Here, take it. There's still water inside."

Holland immediately took the canteen and uncorked it. Without a second thought, he took a swig from it and she heard him gulp down three swallows' worth of water. As he wiped his mouth, she smiled, showing her brightly gleaming teeth through the dark prison.

"How long has it been since you had something to eat?"

"A while," he said matter-of-factly. "The last time I ate, I was still in the Soviet Union. I wandered for weeks trying to get here. I've been forced to settle for leftovers. Some people here are just stingy."

"I'm sorry. People are just cruel. I know it all too well."

"You're certainly kinder than most," Holland replied with sincerity in his sky blue eyes. "At least you didn't throw pennies at me."

Both laughed, and Talho removed her peaked cap, revealing to Holland her shoulder-length ebony black locks. It was uncontrolled and uncut, flowing like a cascade over her shoulders, with a renegade thatch hanging between her eyes. The free flowing mane accentuated her striking hazel eyes, betraying a young woman both kind in soul, and strong in spirit. She knew there was something more to this dirty, scraggly-haired, slightly malodorous boy who hailed from that nation that betrayed her family.

"How long were you living on the streets?" she asked with concern in her eyes.

"About three weeks. I arrived in San Francisco on the first of the month. Honestly, I'm not even sure how I managed to get this far. I was all alone, with no idea of where to go or who to turn to. All I could do was just search for Renton."

Talho smiled. How could her officer possibly suspect this boy of being a shady vagrant, when in truth he was just a lost soul, on the end of his rope?

"He'll help you. I'm sure of it."

They talked on through the hour, discussing small inconsequential things and exchanging pleasantries as if they were old friends. In truth, they were friends already, this young inexperienced soldier and this vagabond without a home, searching for a friend. The soldier could not comprehend what great escapades were to follow, but at the time it mattered little. She picked up a person in need off the street, and guided him to someone who could turn his fortunes around. That, in her mind, was enough. The frustrating days of cleaning duty, the hours of Denisov's ramblings that drove her mad on patrol, the tedium of fetching coffee for cigar-smoking officers was but a drop in the bucket of her emotions. None of those things could overshadow the simple show of kindness from one human being to another.

»»»»»

Renton was still at a loss about the call William received. The militia officer said there was a street urchin who knew him personally, and could only speak Russian. In all honesty, he could not think of a single person who would fit a description like that. He reasoned out loud to Eurekathat it might be some delusional beggar whose better place was in the loony bin. Eureka, however, was more apprehensive, and all manner of speculations ran through her head.

"Renton," she asked as they turned a corner in the middle of downtown, "do you think it could be someone from Stalingrad?"

"Like who?"

"Maybe Holland made it here."

Renton looked to her with unconvinced green eyes.

"What makes you think that?"

"I don't know," she admitted with vulnerability in her voice. "I just have a feeling it might be him. Maybe he got out of Stalingrad somehow. Do you think Mikhail made it too?"

She looked to him with a hopeful, aspiring glimmer in her snowy grey eyes. Renton didn't want to disappoint her, but at the same time, he was skeptical. How could either of them have managed to get out? He and Eureka barely escaped with their lives out of Russia; he was still lost in amazement that they even survived at all. As much as he wanted to hold out hope, both Renton and Eureka agreed they wouldn't think about Stalingrad anymore; that part of their lives was behind them, and he had to move on. Not just for his own sake, but for Eureka's as well.

"Honestly Eureka, I'd really like it if that were the case. But it's been a full month since we left Russia, and we haven't heard anything from either Mikhail or Holland since we came home."

"Renton, you're not saying that—!" Eureka protested, her heart clearly breaking.

Renton faced her, and gently kissed her on the lips, trying to stem any grief he may have caused from that comment.

"Eurekasha, I miss them too. There isn't a day that goes by when I don't think about where they could be now, or if they're alive. But we can't go through our lives mulling over the past. That's not we promised. And I know that's not what Holland would want you to do."

Eureka wanted to protest, but she remembered the promise she made to her brother that night on the station platform in their beleaguered city. Holland told her to not take one look back upon leaving, and to forge a new existence for herself. No, she would not look back to her past. Stalingrad was not a part of her life anymore. But neither would she forget her dear brothers.

"I just…I just hope that he survived," she said, sinking into his comforting embrace. "I've lost so much in this war. I can't bear the thought of losing my siblings too."

They broke apart, and continued on. In a deep, dark crevice of Renton's mind, he secretly wished it might be Holland or Mikhail. Perhaps he might learn what has become of that martyred city, what became of Chertov, and learn if it was even possible to go back. In truth, he already knew the answer. From what he saw and experienced in Stalingrad, it would be a lifetime before that city would be fit to return to again. And even if Eureka did want to go back…he didn't want her to. Not after admitting his true feelings. Not after opening their hearts to each other.

They approached the militia office, recognizing it only by the armed sentry standing outside the door. It was a squat and indistinguishable building, constructed of grey concrete with only a wooden door adorning the front. The office had a claustrophobic quality about it, as if warding away potential visitors, malicious or not. Not surprising, considering how the militia was comprised mostly of White Russians, who mostly kept to themselves in town.

Both approached the entrance, and found the sentry was surprisingly no younger than they were. He had a free and spritely countenance to him, completely opposed to the job that came with his Great War-era uniform. He hid a head of wild amber hair beneath her visor cap, and brown eyes looked to them both with anticipation, as if receiving the Tsar himself.

"Unless the stories are all lies," the soldier said with an expectant grin, "you are the boy everyone has been longing to meet. Renton Thurston, the American Russian!"

Renton tilted his head, his oak brown hair gently swinging to one side.

"That is my name, yes. Though I don't like that title."

"Oh, but you're too modest, Mr. Hero!" the soldier laughed. "You've got the whole town wrapped around your finger! Embrace it!"

Renton rubbed his nose tiredly. This kind of praise and fanfare was something he heard all too often, and it was something he'd rather not be bombarded with each and every day. He preferred to readjust to civilian life in silence, and not be sought out for tales of glory and victory from the battlefield.

"I'm just here because I got a call from the militia office. You picked someone up off the street who said he knows me?"

"Ah, yes. The vagrant. A bit too much hoopla over this bum, if you ask me. But now that you're here, we'll soon see if he's batty or not. One of our soldiers is keeping watch over him in the brig out back. If you'll kindly follow me."

The guard led them around a back alley and into the training grounds behind the militia office. None said a word as they approached the small jailhouse, where a black-haired hazel-eyed female soldier was waiting for them.

"Here's Mr. Hero, Yukieva!" the guard jubilantly called. "Hope that vagrant has behaved himself."

"We were having a nice conversation, actually," the female soldier retorted.

She opened the wrought iron door, and indicated the cell to Renton and Eureka holding the vagrant in question. As they both approached the cell, the female soldier called out.

"Here they are, Holland."

Eureka's eyes widened and Renton stifled a gasp at that name. No, it couldn't be! It was impossible!

The inmate slowly rose, and revealed his face. He was young, no older than 17, with tousled grey hair and strong sky blue eyes that looked to both of them with a plea for help. His clothes were tattered and dirty, and it was evident he had not eaten anything in at least a month. The boy didn't need to introduce himself, as his identity was already apparent to all in that jailhouse. After so many weeks of silence and living with the fear of him being dead, the proof stood in front of them. Holland Petrovich Novikov, the caring middle brother, the boy who helped both Renton and Eureka escape certain death in that city of their youths, was alive. By some miracle, he was alive.

The door to the cell was opened, and Holland was immediately greeted by the excited, ecstatic embrace of Eureka, her tears of joy at having her brother alive and well, and Renton's aghast and astonished hesitations and stumbling. Just as a few months prior, they were together again. Together and happy.

Undoubtedly, the allegations of this street urchin were proven true, and he was indeed a close friend of the renowned hero. In truth, Talho had little doubt that Holland was telling her the truth; in her talks with him, he hardly seemed shady as much as her comrades and officers would characterize him as a lowly vagabond, seeking only to advance himself by way of the American Russian. Rather, he was a lost soul, robbed of a future and betrayed by his own country. His home was destroyed and his family shattered. With Eureka's own brother and Renton's best friend on the end of his rope, what else could they do but take him home with them?

Not minding the consequences and the scolding he was sure to get from William, Renton lent Holland a shoulder to lean on as the three of them staggered out of the cell and towards the door leading out and back home. But before they left, Holland had one last matter to attend to. He turned to the female soldier that had picked him off the street, saving him from a sad and hopeless life, and expressed his gratitude.

"By the way, I never got your name," Holland said in Russian.

Talho smiled, and promptly saluted the trio, as if they were her superiors.

"Private First Class Talho Igorevna Yukieva!" she said with a note of pride in her voice. "303rd Infantry Regiment of the California State Militia."

Holland nodded, committing the name to memory. Talho. Such a beautiful, gentle name. Fitting for his personal rescuer.

"You saved my life, Talho Igorevna. I won't forget it. Spasibo."

"Think nothing of it, Holland Petrovich," Talho said with a sincere smile. "I'm just doing my job. I would not have met you otherwise."

And so they left, and Talho looked on with fondness on the three figures. She reasoned it would not be the last she would see of Holland. Or of the American Russian, for that matter.


	10. Chapter 10

******Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait. My first week at work really kicked my ass, so I haven't had much time to devote to writing. Expect updates to come a bit slower for a few months, as I work for most of the day from 9 to 5. For those who asked, I'm not giving up on this. I have two more stories to edit and reupload when this is done. It's just a matter of me managing the time to do it all. Enough of me and my excuses. Get to reading, people, and I appreciate any and all reviews you have. It helps me get through the work week to know people enjoy what I put on here. **

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**March 26****th****, 1943**

Despite Holland's many injuries and his emaciated state, he told Renton and Eureka everything…or at least, as much as he could tell them. Through him, they learned the dire straits their family was truly in, and how it was now impossible to return to the past. Stalingrad was all but destroyed, and their home along with it. Their country had betrayed them, by allowing men like Chertov to flourish and ascend to power. There was nothing left for them back in the Motherland. Not even a family.

"What do you mean by that?" Renton asked with trepidation.

"Surely the others are still alive!" Eureka said, aspiring with a sense of forlorn hope. "What about Mikhail? Or Vladimir? Father is still alive, too, isn't he?"

Holland's betrayed every story of tragedy that befell him and their home, even before he spoke the first word. How much had changed in this war. How much had been lost thanks to men like Chertov. How little they had left.

"Renton…" he said slowly, "sister…Mikhail is…dead."

Silence suddenly had them in a stranglehold as the revelation hit them with the force of a bomb. Renton's green eyes widened and his jaw slackened, utterly aghast at the news. Mikhail, the bespectacled youngest son, barely older than Eureka herself, was now a casualty of the war? It didn't seem possible. Eureka was visibly shocked by the news, as it was another thing to add to all she lost in this war that had killed everything she ever knew. Tears formed in her snowy grey eyes as she buried her face in Renton's chest, her sobbing almost drowning out the inquiries made by her one anchor and guardian.

"Holland, I don't understand. Why did he die and you live? What about your partisans?"

Holland turned to the ceiling as he lay on their sofa, as if trying to console himself with the monotony of the wall paint.

"What partisans?" Holland asked resignedly. "They've been destroyed, like everything else."

"Destroyed? How?"

"Blame Chertov. That backstabbing runt. He and his men gassed the whole place rather than kill us with his own hands. He left me for dead…"

He shook his head in despair.

"I had to kill my way out, cut through any soldier or policeman that got in my way."

Holland reached out a weak hand to Eureka, her heart visibly breaking from the news of such terrible misfortunes and tortures to befall her family. Why did the innocent always have to suffer in war? Why did their country turn against them? Why did Chertov purposefully shatter and destroy everything? Holland looked to her with strong eyes, as if to impart some inner resolve when there was none to be had. How lucky she was, he thought, to not be privy to such horror of the kind he witnessed.

"Stalingrad is gone, Eurekasha. We can't go back anymore. We must start our lives over…here."

Eureka wiped a tear away from her eyes, and nodded firmly. The vow was not a new one. It was something she and Renton had sworn to on the ship that carried them to freedom, to opportunity, and to love. They would not weep over the past, nor would they fear for the future. This war would not destroy them, like it had so much else.

"I know, brother," she said, sniffing. "And I already have a new life."

William allowed him to stay, which was a miracle in itself. Renton surely thought he would want Holland out posthaste. Eureka pleaded her case, asking for sympathy as he was her brother, and how his situation was exactly that of Eureka's not long ago. Despite the inevitable strain his presence would surely bring, William consented, on the condition that he find work, apply for citizenship, and learn to speak English upon recovering from his injuries. Holland was all too eager to take that chance at a new life. Russia was far behind him, and there was nothing left to return to.

It was a bright, sunny Friday morning when Renton and Eureka were heading out of the house, on their way to school. On their way out to the door, however, both were greeted by the sight of Holland, sitting perfectly upright on a barstool. He still had his old clothes from the times he wandered the streets, ragged and in desperate need of replacement. Renton mentally noted he would have to visit a tailor after school for him.

"You're up early," Renton noted.

"To see you both off," Holland replied. "And I have something to tell you."

"To tell me? Like what?"

"I'd rather it be for your ears only. But…"

Holland smirked, noting how Renton and Eureka's hands were joined. He remembered a jesting request he made to Renton on the night of their escape, as he was boarding the train to leave Russia for the last time. Holland wondered just how far they had progressed in only a two months after departing from their home.

Renton felt his gaze and knew instinctively where it was directed, he tried to let go of Eureka's hand to dispel any misgivings or false impressions from Holland. True, he loved Eureka. True, Holland was one of his closest and more reliable of friends from his visit to Stalingrad. But at the same time, Holland _was_ Eureka's brother.

"Still stuck at holding hands, are you, my friend?" Holland laughed.

Renton's face reddened to that of a strawberry. He surely thought Holland would start piling on the inquisitions, and not in his usual joking persona, as here. Eureka _was_ living under his roof, and surely her brother had concerns that they might go too far. In honesty, he would rather face these and other questions after returning home, without the burden of class and note-taking hanging over his consciousness.

Eureka smiled, seeing her brother had not changed one bit despite all the hardships that had befallen him. It was comforting to see Holland could not be fazed even by offensive betrayal of the kind Chertov was too adept at executing. At the same time, she felt slightly insecure about just how far she and Renton were now, and without an opportunity to tell anyone, even her own brothers. True, he and Mikhail were always the first ones to tease them both for liking each other, but it was still surreal to think that her greatest aspirations had come to fruition. By God, she was glad it was the hard truth.

"Oh my," she giggled in embarrassment. "We haven't told him anything, have we, Renton?"

Holland's smirk grew into a mischievous grin, and Renton immediately noticed a yellow glow from his mouth. He had two gold teeth, something new. Possibly the result of a scuffle with officers or soldiers, he thought.

"Tell me, eh? What does she mean? Just how far have you gotten, Rentoshka?"

Renton visibly shook, as now Eureka was getting on this. This was neither the time nor the place. He could easily recount everything to Holland once the day was over and he had the time. Why did Eureka have to make things so difficult? Why did _love in general_ have to be so difficult? It was hard enough to admit the truth to her. To come to terms with her brother over it felt much harder.

"Holland, can't this wait until after school?"

"What if I didn't let you go until you tell me?"

Renton moved for the door, and Holland immediately jumped to block his way. Thus began a quick dance and battle of wits, as Renton tried every possible opportunity to move to the front door, only to be sidestepped and blocked by his best friend. Just as then, Holland could be a pain, but by God if he didn't like him for that spritely spirit. Again and again, Renton tried to move, with Holland denying him access again and again. In the meantime, Eureka was laughing so hard at this impromptu dance between friends. It reminded her of the many times Holland would playfully pick on Renton in their youths; he was always frightfully easy to tease.

"How long are you going to keep this up?!" Renton cajoled, visibly irritated.

"Until you tell me the truth!"

At that moment, Renton felt a hand on his shoulder and his body suddenly turned. Eureka's lips crashed into his in a full passionate kiss, the same kind he gave her that dreary Valentine's Day under the bridge. At least Eureka had enough sympathy to know when he was cornered and needed someone to pull him out. The kiss seemed to last a lifetime as he bit his tongue to suppress a gentle moan. God forbid he would let Holland hear that, and get the wrong idea. God forbid he and she even entertain such thoughts.

He almost didn't want her to let go, as his hand moved to her cheek, but she broke away and playfully wagged her finger at him.

"Not before class, Rentoshka."

Her snowy grey eyes turned to Holland's blue ones, and her lips smiled triumphantly.

"Does that answer your question, brother?"

Renton was visibly shaking in his shoes, afraid of what Holland might say. He remembered how often Holland used to tease them about how close they were as children, and how often he and Mikhail tried to force them together. However, it was one thing to joke about love and quite another to actually see it come to fruition. The prospect both pretended and played at in their youths was now a stone-cold reality.

"I'm sorry, Holland," he said, regrettably, blushing. "It just happened spontaneously."

Holland laughed, and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. His blue eyes looked to him as if he was already part of their family. He had been since the day he came into their lives before the war tore them all apart. Renton felt light as a feather, but the feather turned into a heavy lead weight at Holland's words.

"The only thing _you_ should be sorry for, my friend, is the fact I will never let you live it down!"

Renton only hung his head in defeat while both Eureka and Holland laughed as they did in their childhoods at the dream that came true.

"Well," Eureka eked out, wiping a joyful tear from her eye, "we have to go to class."

"I have to speak with Renton about something first, sister."

"Have at him, then. Just don't destroy him before the first class."

Eureka gave Renton another gentle kiss on the lips before bounding out the door, with Renton longingly gazing at her until the door closed behind her, and he was left with the middle brother. The caring friend. The practical joker. The one who helped them get this far in the first place. Renton sighed quietly, and thought to himself out loud,

"You have a lovely sister, Holland."

"Rentoshka, answer me as honestly as you can. Do you truly love my sister?"

"Surely you know the answer. I love her more than anything. I admitted that a long time ago."

Holland laughed quietly.

"And here I was, thinking you would never get the ball rolling. I have to say I am envious of you."

"Why's that?" Renton asked, tilting his head in confusion.

"Admitting to something like that would be the hardest thing I'd ever have to do. And yet you did it with ease."

"There was _nothing_ easy about it, Holland, believe me," Renton countered. "I had to get my whole _soul_ in order just to figure out what I felt toward her. I'm just glad I did it sooner than later."

Thinking the matter was done, Renton motioned for the door. However he quickly was halted by a strong, firm grip applied around his wrist. He was greeted by the strong blue eyes of Holland, but unlike minutes before when they shone with a warm sense of camaraderie and brotherhood, they now were ominous, and glinted with a note of portent. Renton had to know what was in store. Not only he was in danger, but potentially Eureka as well.

"Renton," he said, his voice heavy with augury, "there is something you need to know. It's very important."

"What do you mean?"

Holland let go of his wrist and solemnly stepped closer, his weight reverberating under Renton's feet. Was it the earth shaking beneath him, or was Holland heavy in build? He could not tell. What could be gathered was Holland had seen something terrible. It was as if a great tempest was on its way to these shores, and the time had come to seek shelter and wait out the maelstrom. Renton wasted no time in seeking answers to what troubled him.

"Holland, did something happen?"

"A lot happened, and none of it was very good. I fear much more is about to come."

"More?" Renton repeated, not understanding it all. "What do you mean, 'more?' We're safe here, Holland."

"I wish that were the case," Holland countered ruefully. "But it may not be. He has a way of getting what he wants…"

He? Every muscle in Renton's body tensed up in that one utterance of the pronoun. And based on what he just said, he didn't have to guess what kind of person fit the description. He knew in an instant, but sought to suppress such a notion from being true. It could not be, Renton thought. He and Eureka escaped. They now live in safety and comfort. Russia was far away and behind them. The enemies they left behind had been forgotten, dust scattered to the wind.

"Who?"

"Chertov."

A chill raced down Renton's spine in mention of that name. It was a name he'd rather consign to the trash bin of his mind. He was a boy Renton wished he had never met to begin with. If it hadn't been for Chertov, they would not have fought tooth and nail to escape Russia. If it hadn't been for Chertov, he would not have been forced to turn against his own. If it hadn't been for Chertov, Eureka would be in less pain than she was when he found her. Ilya Pavlovich Chertov. Just at the recitation of his full name, an eddy of emotions swirled through Renton's consciousness. Betrayal. Anger. Hatred. Revenge.

"Holland…what does this have to do with him?"

"Chertov told me something before he tried to kill me," Holland replied ominously. "He said he's not finished with you or Eureka yet."

Renton stepped back. No, he told himself. It wasn't possible. Chertov could not still be seeking revenge against him! He could not still be seething in Eureka leaving the country! Surely Chertov would have moved on from the past as well, like he was trying to do so desperately. Holland's words struck him with the intensity of a knife's cut through skin, and left him only questioning more and more what this could mean. For himself. For Holland. For Eureka.

"You can't mean that…" Renton started gravely.

"There is one thing I've learned about Chertov, Rentoshka: he doesn't forget easily. He's not going to stop until he has his revenge."

"Do you think he'll…come here? To find us?"

"I don't know. But there is one thing you must remember: always be on your guard. If there is any lesson I took from what has happened, it is that no one can be trusted now."

Silence gripped the two young boys, one lost in the forest of shock and surprise, another standing on the plains of lethal portent. Renton was visibly shaken as he reached for a brown jacket in preparation to journey out and on to school. As he donned it, Holland tried to give him some incentive and encouragement to face the day.

"Rentoshka, my friend, Eureka came with you because she wanted a chance at a better life. I can see you have given her that. In my experience, however, we don't hold on to the things we love without sacrifice."

"What are you saying, Holland?" Renton asked as he slung his knapsack over his shoulder.

"I'm counting on you to protect her now. Especially since Chertov isn't giving up. She depends on you now. You may have loved her first, but in the end, she chose _you_."

Holland now bid him goodbye with a brotherly kiss on both cheeks. His lips were still grimy and laden with chalk, dirt, and dust. Still, Renton didn't mind it at all; he _was_ his friend, one of the best he ever made in his life. And now, he was a brother in all but name.

"Take care of my sister."

Renton nodded firmly. The vow was an old one. One to which he had steadfastly pledged his heart and soul.

"I promised that to her long before we set foot on these shores."

With the business done, Renton left Holland to catch up to Eureka. He quickly broke into a sprint to make up for lost time, else he'd be late for the first class for sure. But through the sweat, the panting, and the adrenaline that flowed through his veins, something still troubled him. In the back of his mind was the vexing question:

With Chertov surely on the move, what was to become of them now?

»»»»»

Despite being spring, temperatures could still prove nippy for those unaccustomed to the weather patterns of the Bay Area. Winds could provide enough chill for one to think it was still winter, and force one to wrap up. On the rooftop of an abandoned apartment complex, Chertov encountered the reality of such conditions. The wind whipped at his brown overcoat as he stepped to the ledge of the roof, and looked down at the picturesque scene.

He saw houses of all manners of sizes, shapes and designs forming the boundaries of this small town hidden beneath the shadow of the valley. He found it rather quaint as all appeared to be dollhouses found in a toy catalog. It was a foreign and unusual sight to someone so accustomed to the tall apartments and flats of Stalingrad. The roads wound and turned like the curves of a serpent, stretching on into the horizon like highways to the unknown. He looked to one side and saw in the distance the wide open sea, deep and blue. In the distance there was a shipyard filled with hundreds of workers, too small to see, building the Liberty Ships that were so essential to victory. Across the ocean there was San Francisco, the skyline slightly obscured by a white haze. Truthfully, he almost felt ashamed looking at such a colossal, grand sight. Nothing like this existed back home.

Chertov's mind returned to the task that stood before him. No, not just him. The agents under him as well; they were just as responsible for this mission's success as he. On the top of a ventilator, there was a radio box with a communicator and headset plugged in. From the box there was a small generator connected by a coil of black wire. As he put on the headset, Chertov was greeted by the crackling and static. He adjusted the frequency and spoke, testing out the connection.

"Ageha Squad, report in."

There was silence, with only a small buzz in the background. Perhaps not all of them had tuned into the same frequency.

"Ageha Squad, reply at once. This is Lieutenant Chertov."

Again, there was a slight pause, but this time one agent after another answered the call.

"_340 reporting, sir. Awaiting orders."_

"_This is 12, standing by."_

"_271 here. I'm ready."_

"_578 in position."_

"_909 reporting in. Awaiting orders."_

Chertov laughed. At least none of them had broken away and deserted him.

"You had me worried for a moment, Ageha Squad. It gets rather lonely up here with no one to talk to. What is the time now?"

"_1435 hours_1_."_

Chertov smirked knowingly.

"Perfect. If the school schedule is right, the target will be getting out from class any moment now. 340, are you in position?"

"_Yes, sir. I am looking at the campus right now. No one appears to have left the building yet."_

"Give them time. Today is an early day for the students. Remember, Ageha Squad: we are just observing today. I want no heroics out there from any of you. Is that understood?"

"_Yes, sir!"_

Chertov grinned widely as he stared down into the sleepy town, unsuspecting and unknowing of what was about to befall it. It was blind prey, defenseless against the plan he had set in motion. All great missions began with a single step. This was step one.

"Thurston…my revenge starts now."

Meanwhile, far away from the decadent chocolate brown eyes of her commander, 340 sat quietly on a bench looking to the high school that their target was attending today. It was quiet elaborate, but also plain. There were two main halls on the hill, with a clock tower standing tall above them like a lighthouse standing guard on the shore. On the street level there was a courtyard with a tall cypress tree in the center, and a large gymnasium behind it. They were all built in the Spanish Mission style, harkening to the days of early exploration by eager conquistadors in search of a new land to claim.

The air was still and calm, with only a mild breeze sweeping through the paved roads, carrying with it messengers in the forms of empty paper bags and scraps of paper. When a car passed by, volumetric dust trailed behind it like the train of a bride's wedding dress. The sun shone brightly in the sky, breaking through a thin veil of clouds. It seemed like a sacrilege that such a beautiful day would be used to stalk and potentially harm someone. Especially a defenseless child no older than her or her officer.

340 still had some misgivings, but she chose to put them aide for now. In honesty, she had very little knowledge about the American Russian when she got down to it. All she knew about him was hearsay and gossip, spread by her comrades concerning his bravery in battle, his selfless sacrifice for the Soviet people, and his adept skills in combat. She knew nothing about the _boy_. She knew nothing about who he was beneath all of that. How he was with friends. With enemies. With lovers.

She suddenly remembered how 271 told her the true reason he came to fight in the first place: out of love for a girl he left behind. In the eyes of anyone else, one would think less of a boy who only was caught up in the fight while searching for a loved one. For 340, it didn't make as much difference to her. In fact, it made the story seem all the more heroic. To come out and risk one's life for someone one had not seen in years was a prospect not many people would jump at so enthusiastically. Yet this boy did it with a full heart, unmindful of the consequences and in the face of what was sure to befall him on a battlefield. Whoever this girl was, she surely must command a great influence on him to come so far, and accomplish so much. She could not help but respect and admire a boy so dedicated to the people around him.

At that moment, the school bell rang, and she looked up at the campus from under her hooded cloak. The doors opened and a flood of students rushed out of the respective halls and from the gymnasium. She was amazed to see how many children still attended school even with the war in full swing. In her own country, she had seen children no younger than her drop out and quit school to aid in the war effort. Whether it was through enlisting, working in the factories, or even working double shifts, many had chosen to sacrifice their personal futures for the future of their country.

Their hearts were in the right place, to be sure, but did it necessitate throwing away a chance at a career? She had to fight tooth and nail just to earn a place with the NKVD, and she tired herself endlessly through school and studies just to apply. It was a close-run thing she even got in.

_If you knew this was the kind of work you'd be doing, would you still take this job?_

340 willed the voice away, and set to the business of seeking out her target. In the breast pocket of her jacket she fished out a small photograph of the boy. oak brown hair. Strong piercing eyes. A young face, betraying a life of austerity, hardship, and loss. So undeserving of all that had befallen him.

"Just 16, and he's suffered so much already."

She scanned the crowds of young people, searching for the one hero in the midst of ordinary denizens. Each wore their life story on their faces. Some were rich, some were poor. Some were humble, others arrogant. Some led happy lives, others were sad and lonely. One boy was one she sought for, yet she had so many to choose from. How amazing it was some people could bear a resemblance to a hero!

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something. A young boy with oak brown hair emerging from beneath the clock tower. He wore a dark brown jacket over a white shirt and red sweater vest. To provide a contrast, his knickerbockers were khaki in color and his socks black, his feet tucked into matching loafers. The face seemed familiar. 340 tracked his movement down the steps from the clock tower to street level. Along the way, several people passed him, presumably bidding him goodbye and good day. Suddenly a girl trotted up behind him, roughly his age.

The girl had long, wavy, dark brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders and hung between her snow grey eyes. Her light blue jacket sported a flower in the breast pocket and her matching skirt was frilled around the hem. On her hands were pristine white gloves, much like 340's own pair. A bright smile ran across her face as she bounced down the steps and came beside the boy. The two of them greeted each other with familiarity, as if they had known each other forever. What the boy did next sent 340's heart skip a beat.

He kissed her.

It was a soft and loving joining of lips, but it was enough to confirm the two's relationship. She could see in both of their eyes they were in love. Deeply in love. As they reached street level, 340 held up the target photograph and compared it with the boy in front of her. There was no mistake about it. It was him, the hero they had been looking for.

She kept her light blue eyes squarely focused on Renton as she pressed on the communicator on her neck.

"This is 340."

"_Go ahead, 340. What's happened?"_

"I have visual confirmation of the target along with an unidentified female. Please advise."

"_Do not engage the target. Hang back and observe."_

"And what of the girl?"

"_Ignore her for the time being. Our primary interest is the boy."_

"Understood, sir."

340 watched as their hero stopped on the sidewalk, conversing with the girl. He was deeply focused on her, enough to be unmindful of the students that shuffled past him and brushed alongside him. It seemed there was no world other than each other. She could not help but feel envious for the American Russian to have someone who loves him deeply and truly, enough to stay by him for all that life had to offer. 340 never encountered someone like that in her life as an agent of the state. As a member of the secret police, her loyalty was sworn to the Party and to Joseph Stalin first and foremost, so all relationships were considered secondary. Still, it did not preclude her from fancying about a man whom she could entrust all her secrets to, fight beside, and find comfort in when hardships grew too numerous and too heavy in weight.

The two young lovebirds parted ways after a final kiss, and the boy headed to 340's right, in the direction of downtown. The girl, on the other hand, crossed the street and walked towards the residential part of town. Remembering the words of Chertov, 340 rose from her bench, readjusted her hood, and followed the boy. She made a call on her communicator.

"340 again. The target is moving downtown, and I am pursuing now."

"_Roger, but keep your distance! We are outnumbered and alone here; we must not attract attention."_

340 nodded, and at that moment, another call came. This time it was from 271, who was in the downtown business section. 271, the closest thing she could call a friend in this squad.

"_I'll be in the town square outside the cafe, 340. Look for me."_

"Duly noted, 271. I'll be there soon."

As she struggled past the legions of students that swarmed over the crosswalk, she mentally thanked her lucky stars that her civilian disguise allowed her to blend in. Underneath her light blue hooded cape, 340 wore a frilled white blouse with a blue bow around her collar and a matching knee-length skirt and buckled shoes. The only thing one could really call into question was her cape, but it was still reasonable, given the stiff breezes that flew by. While she pushed through the throngs, and kept in sight of the target, she passed by various locales along the way into downtown.

A lumber mill that provided a majority of work.

A auto mechanic's workshop, where there was only one car in repair.

A bookstore, displaying the latest bestsellers to a people in need of escape from a war torn world.

A clothier, showcasing the newest fashion trends to uninterested passersby.

The sidewalks turned to cobblestone and the masses thinned out, leaving the boy with his back turned to her. Even without looking him in the eye, she could see plainly what kind of soul inhabited that body.

Renton dressed formally, as if in route to a business meeting, although his knickerbockers made him stick out considerably. Normally after reaching 16, one would shed such clothes that are equated with adolescence and graduate to long slacks, crossing the threshold between childhood and adulthood. It was a sign he was still young, or perhaps wishing he was still young. His oak brown locks hung freely and uncombed behind him, covering the nape of his neck like a blanket. His hands were curled into fists, and he walked cautiously, trepidation reverberating in every step. Did this boy already have suspicions?

As she passed by a diner, she received a call through her communicator.

"_340, this is 271. I have visual confirmation of you and the target. Look to your right."_

340 did so, and she quickly spotted her friend and comrade, sitting under a spreading chestnut tree. 271 wore a light blue hooded cape much like hers, but as she sat in the earth, did not wear white clothes that would surely be stained. Instead, she was dressed in grey with a jacket and matching skirt. 340 nodded to her and responded.

"I see you, 271."

"_The target has stopped moving. Be on your guard."_

As she said, Renton had stopped his walking, looking around his purview as if searching for someone. 340's mind raced as she tried to find a suitable hiding spot. The last thing any of them needed was to be found out before the mission even got started! In milliseconds that felt like hours, she scoured the area, trying to find some way of becoming anonymous and avoiding detection. Thinking quickly, she jumped into an alleyway between a florist and a pharmacy.

340 peered around the corner, eyeing the boy from beneath her hood. If he already suspected, then he must have the powers of a seer. An eternity seemed to pass as he looked about him, taking in all the sights and sounds of this quiet valley town. Renton looked behind him, to find no one there. At that moment, 340's blue eyes made contact with Renton's strong dark green ones.

They flashed in the afternoon light like stars in a bright wintry sky, and had a magnetizing quality about them. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't look away and duck completely out of sight. His eyes held her in a tight grip, as she felt her body pierced by his gaze. 340 wasn't afraid, but rapt. She quietly whispered,

"I think he may suspect."

"_Do not move, 340,"_ 271 called on the communicator. _"He cannot know about any of this."_

"I don't think we have to worry about that…"

With military precision and timeliness, Renton turned away, shrugging his shoulders ineffectually. 340 almost stepped out but noticed then that the boy was peering over his shoulder slightly. He definitely suspected. Turning on his heel, he entered the pharmacy cautiously, still looking 340's direction. The bell perched atop the doorframe rung, and she breathed a sigh of relief. That was far too close for her comfort.

"This is 340," she said, breathing heavily on her communicator. "Target has gone into the pharmacy. Please advise."

"_Go in and see what he is up to. Be careful not to draw his attention."_

"Roger that."

She quietly entered and was silent as the grave. 340 scanned each aisle for Renton, hoping that she would not lose him. Each time a bystander shifted past her searching for items of necessity, 340 took a note to pull her hood down, concealing her face. Soon enough she spotted the target, moving behind the counter at the back of the pharmacy. He clipped on a nametag to his jacket and stood behind the cash register. It appeared to be something habitual for him, like he did this every day. That was when she realized this is where he worked. It would be a good many hours before he would move, she thought.

She feigned interest in an array of the latest periodicals to draw less attention to herself. Time Magazine. Newsweek. National Geographic. The Saturday Evening Post. All materials the boy surely read from time to time. When it was clear she had become anonymous, she pressed on her neck.

"340 calling squad leader."

"_This is Chertov. Go ahead, 340."_

"This pharmacy is where the target works. It could be a while before he moves again. Interrogative: what should we do in the meantime?"

"_Wait until he moves again, then follow him. If it makes you feel any better, you could get a coffee or read that book you were meaning to get into while you wait."_

340 sighed in irritation at Chertov's sardonic remark. She wanted to snap back if he would like to come down here himself, but she feared the consequences of starting a spat between officer and subordinate. She could only consign herself to the prospect of a long wait, longer than what she and surely the rest of the agents would like.

"Understood," she returned in a deadpan voice.

She could swear she heard Chertov chortle with delight at the situation.

"Cheeky bastard," she muttered to herself.

Since she knew it would be a good wait, she thought it only natural to buy some reading material to pass the time. Time Magazine would suffice. She could easily read through it in a few hours. 340 moved to the cashier and quickly realized her mistake. The very target she was supposed to kill was manning the register. No, she wouldn't kill him. Not here, where there were witnesses. They were just observing today. What to do now? All manners of options raced through her head as she searched around for alternative cashiers. There were none.

Confronted with the immutable reality she had to face, she silently placed the magazine on the counter, making sure to hide her face as much as she could. As she handed the boy the money owed, she got a good look at his face. He was very young, but melancholy stood in his piercing green eyes that stabbed her soul. She felt he could see right through her, and everything was exposed including her true reason for being here. Her heart raced, fearing what may happen if she said something to him, anything at all.

She remembered the dangers of asking too many questions. She almost came to blows with the Lieutenant Colonel. Chertov surely had suspicions already. It was imperative not to arouse further notice to herself, not just for the mission's sake, but for the sake of her conscience when she committed the deed. So she said nothing, and only listened to his voice as he rang up the receipt.

"Thank you, ma'am. Have a good day."

His voice was maturing. Not cracking or high-pitched, nor deep and booming. He was rather subdued and resigned in his tone as he handed her the scrap of paper. What she noted was he sounded exactly like his age. Exactly 16.

She exited the pharmacy as inconspicuously as she came in. 340 mentally wished that there would be a reason to come where they didn't have to carry through with this deed. She checked both sides of the road and cautiously crossed towards the cafe in the square. There was a wooden bench on which she could sit and watch the pharmacy. 271 came to join her.

"So, how is our hero?"

"Normal," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm rather surprised he works in a place like that."

"What do you mean?"

"You'd think he work in a dock making ships, or in a munitions factory, or something. Yet he goes to school and holds a low-key job."

271 laughed, noting the ironic truth behind their larger-than-life hero.

"I find it fitting, really. A boy who has so much acclaim and did so much in a short time, and yet still leads a rather ordinary life. It'd be almost oppressive if everything in a hero's life was grand."

"Maybe," 340 replied, nodding, "but I am still in shock at the matter."

There was a slight pause, and a note of awkwardness filled the square. 271 cleared her throat and spoke cheerily.

"Since we're going to be waiting, I'm getting a coffee. Would you like one too?"

"I wouldn't mind one, now that you mention it."

"Perfect! How do you like yours?"

"If they have cappuccino, could you get me French Vanilla?"

"Right away, comrade sergeant."

She turned, her cape flowing behind her and sauntered towards the cafe, leaving 340 alone with only the distant singing of robins and the hum of passing cars to keep her company. She tried to read an article, but found herself fixated on the door to the pharmacy, where her target lay. The same questions she had been asking since the day this began repeated themselves over and over. To make matters worse, she still had no answers, and didn't expect to get any anytime soon.

"I still understand nothing," she muttered.

»»»»»

Darkness had fallen. All lights were put out in observance of a blackout. Saving power was essential during wartime to not only cut costs but provide the energy necessary to power factories that produced the vital war supplies. Such an environment made for a perfect night to scout the house of their intended target.

They waited all of three hours for him to move. Three long arduous hours of being on standby. It was the most agonizing 340 ever spent. She was all the more glad Renton even came out so they could resume the mission. While she still followed him home, and Chertov still commanded from the rooftop of that abandoned apartment building, her fellow squad mates assisted her in their pursuit of the young hero. They tracked him step by step, joining forces all along the way and slowly reuniting their squad for this. This would be the first attempt.

340 hid behind a small patch of underbrush, now eyeing the house where their target made residence. Just like the job he occupied, his house was nothing to write home about. A scrawny little single-floor bungalow perched on a hill overlooking the residential street. Houses that stood at two stories flanked the hill, standing guard over the entrance to their hero's domain. 340 wondered to herself if maybe this boy was simply poor and insolvent, which only raised more questions of how he managed to travel across the world and back. It must have taken years of scrimping and saving on the part of his father to do it. The story was made all the more amazing as she pieced together the different parts of his profile.

"340?" said a voice from beside her.

340 jumped in surprise, and turned to find 909, her orange hair evident even under her shroud of light blue. 909 was the youngest of all the agents, and subsequently the least experienced in matters of assassination. In essence, this mission was the equivalent to on-the-job training for her. Well, 340 thought, her worth would be proven soon enough.

"Oh, 909," she whispered. "Is everything ready?"

"We're all in position and awaiting orders to move."

"What is the time?"

909 shined a flashlight on her watch, and recited as accurately as she could get it.

"2327 hours, 48 seconds."

"We move in at 2330. Get to your position and wait for my go."

"Yes, 340."

909 scurried across the sidewalk to her position. The chirping of crickets, the distance call of a nightingale, and the silent twinkling of stars filled the night air as 340 spoke on her communicator to all of the squad. The time of action was fast approaching, and they could not afford any mistakes to be made.

"Ageha Squad, this is Agent 340. Our objective tonight is to gain any pertinent intelligence on the target known as Renton Ivanovich Thurston. We will enter the house and search it for any possible information that may help us in our cause. All of you have specific tasks to perform."

She paused for a moment, thinking to herself what on earth she was doing here, about to order her compatriots to kill an innocent child like the one she met in the pharmacy. What had he done to earn death? What transgression deserved martyrdom? Did she have any chance of backing out now?

"909, 578, you are to enter the building through the front. 12, you will find an alternate means of entry. Do not, repeat, _do not_ under any circumstances alert the target. 271, you will stand guard and watch for any potential witnesses. This must be done without any chance of being tracked. If anyone sees us, it's over. Questions?"

"_340,"_ asked 271, speaking from behind a fencepost, _"what will you be doing during this time?"_

"Making sure our target doesn't wake up. Any other questions?"

Silence filled the radio. It spoke volumes to her.

"Very well. Be ready to move on my signal."

340 looked at her wristwatch. In the dim light offered by the stars, she could make out the time just barely. It was almost time to launch the operation. Their first attempt at a break-in, and possibly the first attempt at assassination. Secretly, however, she was hoping more for the former than the latter. She was not ready to take this boy's life away just yet. Not as long as she didn't have due cause for it. Surely, she thought and hoped, she would have a reason for why Renton needed to die before this mission was over. Her blue eyes were glued to the second hand as it crept closer and closer to the number 12.

"Stand by…stand by…"

Five seconds left. There was no backing out now.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The wires on the watch touched, and the hour was now 2330. It was their cue.

"Go! Go! Go!"

In an instant, all the members of the squad ran up the hill, each coming from different directions and circling around the small bungalow. 909 and 578 ran together straight up the stone steps to the front door, carrying a lock picking kit between them. 12 came from the left side, bounding over a picket fence and entering the property of the idol, the child soldier, the hero. 271 emerged from behind a cypress tree standing a sentinel over the large hill behind the bungalow, scouring the horizon for potential witnesses. 340 followed 909 and 578 up the steps, and made certain they were setting to the business of picking the lock.

578 set the kit down and began to gather the necessary tools while 909 examined the lock, calculating in her head which pick would be most suitable. Not all door locks were the same. 340 maneuvered to the right side of the house, examining the walls for possible entry points besides the front. It was a small place, so she had little doubt there would be another. Still, it was worth noting for the future.

Even though the house was small, the yard behind it seemed endless with waves of grass and wheat swaying in the night wind like exotic dancers performing for a sultan. In the distance she spotted a wooden worm fence with tin cans mounted on top in a row. There were bullet holes through each of them, meaning they had been used for target practice. But by whom? 340 mentally noted the possibility of the target being armed. He _was_ after all, an experienced veteran tested in combat, so it would not be surprising if he brandished a firearm of his own. All the more reason to approach this mission with extreme caution.

340 was now at the back of the house, and noticed for the first time how incredibly plain the house truly was. Painted in an unflattering shade of tan, the bungalow was about as uninteresting a residence one could hope to find, with no fancy trim or doilies on windows to be found. This hero lived like a Spartan, it seemed, unlike the lavish and powerful existence she was sure he enjoyed in this, his home country and her ally.

There was a window in the shape of a semicircle, which offered a view inside the house. Her curiosity burning, 340 took the opportunity to take a gander at the innermost lodging of the American Russian. What she found struck her almost immediately.

To begin with, she found she was peering into the bedroom of the boy, who was asleep on his bed. Well, maybe not bed. More of a cot than anything else. She found there were no adornments in the white room. No paintings. No toys from childhood. No desk for work. The room was completely bare of any furnishings except the bed and an oak nightstand. Such conditions made the character even more austere than he already was for attending school and a simple job. Facing the bed was a foldout closet, holding all manner of knickknacks and clothes within its confines. She then turned her eyes back to the bed, with a focus on the sleeping visage of her target.

He wore only a loose-fitting white loose-fitting bleached shirt while he hid under white linens to cover himself from the cold. His head rested on a pillow with his eyes shut and his face appearing content, looking towards the ceiling while wrapped in the sweets of sleep. She noted how his chest rose and fell gently with each successive breath he took, unmindful of the unknown intruder peering through his window. But that alone was not what caught 340's attention. What intrigued her, or rather, what shocked her more was the person who slept next to him.

It was a girl, roughly the same age as Renton, lay next to him. She wore a crisp white gown with a blue bow tied around the collar. Her brown hair sprawled out around her head and across the white sheets like fresh earth cast upon a blanket of snow. Unless she was mistaken, it was the same girl she had seen with the boy earlier. How was it this girl was also living under the same roof as the hero? Did anyone else know of this significant other, sharing a house with him? Sleeping in the same bed? Didn't anyone object to this cohabitation?

Who was she? A girlfriend? An admirer? A sibling?

So many questions filled her mind, and she could not come up with any answers as to who, what, or why. As soon as she found out one thing about the American Russian, another mystery reared its head. It was that that made this task for her all the more challenging to face.

At that moment, Renton stirred in his bed, and turned on his side, facing the window. 340 felt a sheet of sweat form on her brow and soak her collar, fearing he might wake up.

She thought too soon.

His eyes flashed open, and for one fleeting moment, both were locked in a gaze. 340's mouth went dry, her knees shook, and sweat dripped down her head and over her cheeks. He knew now they were here, and they had to react quickly. Otherwise, all of this effort would be for naught, and she would very well face the wrath of her superior. She quickly ducked down from the window, and called on her communicator in as low and soft a voice as she could modulate.

"Ageha Squad, pull back now! Abort mission!"

"_Why?"_ 271 answered back. _"What's the matter, 340?"_

"The target woke up; he saw me in the window. If you don't get out of there now, our cover is blown!"

"_What?!"_

"_Are you certain, 340?"_

"_We haven't even begun!"_

At that moment, Chertov's voice came over the communicator.

"_Ageha Squad, I said we cannot take any chances, and that order still stands. Pull back now!"_

340 scrambled to her feet and dashed back down the hill, ordering her squad mates to follow. Things seemed to quickly unravel like a ball of yarn. They could not afford to waste any time, or they would surely be risking their lives.

"Abort mission! Abort mission!"

"What about the kit?" 578 spluttered, her mind clearly frazzled by what was happening.

"Take it with you, 578!" 12 rejoined as she spun around the corner of the house "We must leave no trace we were here!"

"Pull back now! All of you!"

The entire squad fled down the slope of the hill and scattered to their own personal hiding spaces. 340 dove right back into the patch of shrubbery that concealed her, while leaving her with a view of the house. No lights turned on, to her surprise, as she was sure the target would alert anyone else living in the house. Heaven forbid they all be caught now and charged with suspicious activity and conspiracy. Chertov would not only have her head, but so would the Lieutenant Colonel. She was just thankful she managed to pull the squad back in time.

Suddenly, the front door opened with a creak, and out stepped their target. The American Russian, Renton Ivanovich Thurston.

He was hastily dressed, evident in how he still wore his bleached shirt with a pair of striped boxers. A short grey robe hung over his shoulders to shield him from the cold, while he walked out barefoot. In his hands, he carried what appeared to be a bolt-action rifle. None of them could discern the make or model, but it did confirm one thing in 340's mind: the tin cans on the worm fence were shot by the boy. carefully, she pressed on her communicator.

"This is 340," she whispered.

Chertov immediately answered.

"_340, explain the situation. What do you see?"_

"The target is outside. He's holding a rifle. Please advise."

"_You are NOT authorized to approach the target. Do not engage the target."_

"Understood."

Renton stepped forward down the hill with care, warily traversing the rifle in each direction. His green eyes scanned the neighborhood with fear and concern for whoever tried to infiltrate his abode. 340 suddenly felt a hard lump develop in her throat as she could swear he was looking right at her and her fellow agent 271. They lay low to the ground, hoping not to lure Renton in their direction with any sight by them. Renton opened his mouth and hesitantly called into the night.

"Hey, is someone out there?"

All remained quiet, as each agent knew better than to respond to his query. As far as he was concerned, they were just the wind, invisible and gone in a fleeting moment. Renton took a few more steps down the hill and went to the right, heading in 340 and 271's direction. Both agents covered their mouths with their hands to conceal the sound of their breathing.

"Hello?"

340 resisted the urge to break and run as Renton combed the shrubbery where they were, literally mere feet away from them both. This was the closest she ever felt to dying, even if the threat was not as great as it was in the heat of battle back in Stalingrad. He still owned a gun, and could fire it at any given moment. He walked past them, and doubled back to check the other side of the house.

"Is anyone here?"

Stillness filled the air, and Renton gave up on his quest to search for the mysterious visitor. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he trotted up the steps as best he could on his bare feet, and closed the door behind him gently. As soon as they heard the lock close, all agents breathed a sigh of relief. They were too close to failing the mission that time.

"This is 340. Target has re-entered the house and locked the door. Please advise."

"_Ageha Squad, you are to pull back. You've done enough today. Return to base and refit for the night."_

At that order, 12 immediately protested.

"_Sir, please, give us another chance! I promise we won't screw up this time!"_

"_He's spooked, 12. If you go back, you risk blowing your cover and alerting anyone else in the house."_

"_But, sir—"_

"_No buts! There's too much heat on us now! We need to wait until things have calmed down and then we can make our next move. For now, return to HQ. That's an order! Out."_

340 sighed, knowing that Chertov was right. They aroused far too much suspicion in one night, and especially considering how it was only the first night. There would be another time for this. Another opportunity would come along. The more she thought about it as she rose up to leave with the other agents, she felt glad things ended like this tonight. She was not ready to take his life. She could not face herself in the morning, especially without any juxtaposition or frame of reference. She only had questions piled on top of more questions about what this mission was truly for. It was not a mystery that would be solved in one night, that much she knew.

"Sleep well, Thurston," she whispered.

And she disappeared into the night.

1 Military time, with 1435 hours translating as 2:35 pm.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: The wait has been a long and arduous one, I know. Work has really not let up, and it has given me little chance to even plan out what will come next, let alone write it down. However, I don't want to deprive you of content on my own account, so here's Chapter 11. You could call it a breather, but at the same time it moves the plot a little bit. How it does so you will see for yourself.**

**One thing I would like the point out right now is I recently opened a forum for the Historical E7 saga, which you can visit on ffnet. Just go in, ask some questions, speculate, praise, criticize, everything. No holds barred, all views welcomed. It's a way to generate some discussion in-between the chapters. **

**In the meantime, enjoy and be sure to review!**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**March 29****th****, 1943**

Renton could not get his mind off it. It was hounding him, niggling in the back of his head for all of the past three days. That strange visitor in the window, peering through at him and Eureka asleep in bed. He must have scared off that intruder when he awoke, as he scavenged a rifle from the closet and combed the yard, searching for anything and anyone. He found nothing, except a trembling unmitigated sense of paranoia.

Something was happening, and Renton greatly feared it was portending Chertov's revenge. Whether it meant he had come to America, or sent someone to do his dirty work was unknown to him at that moment. But it was clear to Eureka, clear to Holland, clear to William, and clear to anyone else who knew Renton that that uninvited visit frazzled him. He didn't leave his home for all of Saturday and Sunday, always watching for that mysterious intruder. All of today throughout his wanderings on campus, he always hesitantly looked over his shoulder. As much as he tried to deny it, there was something amiss in the quiet town.

At the end of a long day of classes, he and Eureka walked together hand-in-hand down the tall steps. Neither said a word to each other, as Renton's green eyes darted around looking for anyone who could match the description of that visitor. The question was now buried in the deepest fold of his mind: who was that person staring at him through the window? Why did that person quickly dart from view, and why was that person looking through the window in the first place?

"Rentoshka!" Eureka's voice called.

Renton was recalled back to reality and out of his musings. He turned his eyes down to his love, who was staring up at him with a pouty look on her face.

"You're daydreaming again…"

"Prostitye, Eurekasha. I was thinking about something." (A/N: Sorry)

Eureka's lips curled into a knowing wry smile.

"You're _always_ thinking about something…"

Renton said nothing to that, as she was right in that regard. Even before he ventured out across the ocean to find her, he spent many a day in contemplation. Regardless of the subject, be it war, politics, or past life, he found a way to be alone and to think. Of course, it was a habit Eureka was desperate to have him break. She jokingly nudged him in the shoulder.

"What could you be thinking of, I wonder?"

"Who that person was on Friday night."

The mood suddenly darkened between the two of them as they reached the street. It was true that Chertov was on the move now, but she thought the chances of him coming to America were slim to none. Russia was behind them both, and they needed to move on. Chertov was a memory to her now, one she would rather consign to the mental ash heap. He had caused her and her family so much pain already. Why couldn't he just disappear?

"Renton…"

"Holland told me something was coming. What if this is it? What if Chertov managed to come here? What if—?"

She squeezed his hand affectionately, a wordless command for him to stop. He slowly turned his dark green eyes which connected with her snowy grey ones. She was visibly fraught with worry, not for what may happen to them in the future, but what was happening to him here and now.

"Renton, please. Don't speak about him. We promised each other we would put that part of our lives behind us."

"Yeah, but…Holland said…"

"I don't care what brother said, Renton. Do you really want to live your life in constant fear? Always looking over your shoulder?"

"Holland wouldn't say something like that if it wasn't true."

Eureka forced Renton to face her, stopping him from walking any further.

"You and brother see ghosts where there are none. Both of you saw too much in Stalingrad."

"It has nothing to do with Stalingrad, Eureka! I saw someone in the window, looking at both of us!"

"How many times did you wake up in Stalingrad expecting a German to be there?"

Again, Renton stood silent, because of the kernel of truth in her words. But now it was different. Back then, he was on a battlefield, and it was to be expected. He was home, away from the killing, and had found peace again. The thought of someone staring into the window, thinking or planning God only knew what was just too much to bear. Chertov was still alive, and he could be lurking anywhere.

"You're leaving me again," Eureka pressed, her grey eyes stern. "You're going into that place in your heart that causes you pain."

Renton sighed, wishing there was a painless solution for all of this. He covered one of his eyes in frustration.

"I want this to go away!" he said in anxiety.

Eureka took a step closer to him and took a hold of both his hands. He saw the most angelic, loving smile he had ever seen from her, and his heart instantly melted at her words.

"We're here, in your wonderful country. We're safe. Together we can make the bad memories and fears fade."

"Then what would you have me do?" he asked her softly, leaning in to her gentle face.

"Let me be the place in your heart to go to."

Renton wanted to say something more, but Eureka's lips would have none of it. The kiss was moist and warm, tasting slightly of bitter Ghirardelli chocolate. His heartstrings plucked with each passing second with their kiss, feeling more like hours and then like centuries. As much as he didn't want to burden her, he knew in his heart she was right. They had agreed to share their lives. Sharing problems was something that came with the promise. It was such a soothing sensation, her lips against his. It was the balm for all of his worries. One touch from her sent his mind into mental cartwheels and his soul high above the clouds. Only through the gentle breaking of their sealed lips was he able to return from the higher world back to the mortal. Just her smile was enough to put his mind at ease, and the thought of the intruder faded away.

As they were both lost in exchanging pleasantries and one finding comfort in the other, a familiar figure came trotting up to the couple. She was about Renton's age, with long golden blonde hair surging like a river down her back and over her shoulders. Her strong ocean blue eyes that focused squarely on the young couple as she pushed through the crowd of students and ignore the calls of her friends, asking her to join them. A faded cyan hooded cloak was draped over her deep royal blue dress, as there was a stiff breeze blowing through town.

Her syrupy sweet accented voice called out to them both.

"Oh, Renton! Eureka!"

The young couple greeted their friend with a pair of genuine smiles. In the back of her mind, Jane was seething at Eureka's bright and happy face. It seemed to mock her, rubbing in the fact that she had gotten to Renton before she even thought of coming out. She suppressed a low growl from the back of her throat and swallowed her pride. Renton greeted his British friend cordially.

"Hi, Jane. How are you today?"

"I'm doing just perfect, thank you. You don't know how long I have been looking everywhere for both of you!"

"What for, Jane? Something you need?"

"Why, yes," Jane returned, nodding.

Appearing joyful to see both of them, Jane turned to Eureka in particular.

"Eureka, would you care to stop by my place for some tea?"

Eureka took a step back, mild surprise evident on her young childlike face. In truth, Jane had not made any kind of effort to reach out to her since the day she first came to school with Renton. They merely passed each other in the hallways, sat in on the same classes, and went about their business as normal. To hear Jane formally invite her to her home, let alone to a gathering anywhere, seemed surreal.

Jane smiled, and her blue eyes turned to Renton.

"That is…if Renton doesn't mind."

"Not at all, Jane," Renton countered, waving away her feigned fears. "I have to get to work, anyway."

Renton turned to Eureka one last time and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"I'll see you at home. Have fun, you two!"

The three parted ways, and the two young girls crossed the street in the direction of the residential section. As the calls of students drifted further and further away, supplanted by the distant chirping of birds and the whispers of the wind, Jane turned to her companion, and was able to fully examine her up close.

Eureka had evidently managed to shed the old battle-scarred clothes of her old homeland, and she had fully embraced the fashion of the West. She struck an elegant figure for a 15-year-old, perfectly juxtaposing innocence and maturity in her wardrobe. Eureka was, as always, clad in baby blue with a matching jacket and knee-length skirt belted around her slim waist. Underneath her jacket was a white frilled blouse, and around her neck was wrung a light blue ascot that swayed in the wind with each step she took in her black ballet flats. Her long wavy brown hair flowed freely behind her, not bound by hairclips of any kind. Her unfettered mane gave her an earthly quality, like a modest peasant girl who toiled on a farm somewhere in the vast unending steppes of Mother Russia.

She was a picture of beauty. And Jane's resentment only deepened with the acknowledgement of that fact.

Desperate to get her mind off what was plaguing her, Jane innocently struck up an inconsequential conversation.

"How has school been for you thus far, Eureka?"

"It's been alright, I suppose," Eureka replied, pushing away a renegade thatch of hair from her face. "The homework is a bit difficult to understand."

Jane chuckled.

"You're not the only one who feels that way, my dear Eureka. Many days I feel quite overwhelmed by it all."

"It's all right though," Eureka said with a small, cheery smile. "Renton always helps me to understand it. He's tutoring me."

"Oh, is he now?" she asked with marked interest.

"He is. He's been so supportive ever since I arrived here. I don't know what I'd do without him."

Jane only nodded, suppressing the growing and burning jealousy in her soul. Instead she recounted how reclusive and unsociable Renton had been today. However, it was not in the same way as he had been before, where he was simply gloomy, always contemplating, and searching for something that seemed beyond his reach. Rather, he went about classes as if he was hounded by someone or something. Whenever Jane saw him, he was always in a hurry to get to the next class, always looking about him and over his shoulder with a note of suspicion. She had never seen him act like that before.

"Speaking of Renton, I noticed he was acting a little…odd today."

"Odd? What do you mean?"

"He seems to be deeply troubled about something. I tried to talk with him but he always was in a rush, as if he was being chased by someone."

Eureka's snowy grey eyes gazed downward, obviously knowing what Jane was talking about. It was something she more acutely, as he had been on edge ever since Friday night. And yet despite his incessant fears that someone was hounding him, following him, waiting for the moment to do God only knows what to him, Renton never turned to her for comfort and guidance. How she wished that Renton would at least once not act so strong and confide in her all the pain he felt, just as he did before his confession. Many a night he spent seeking soothing words from her after a terrifying nightmare, recalling combat and horrors unlike any a boy his age should see. Why can't he turn to her again?

"He's been like that since Friday night. Something happened."

"Between you two?"  
"No."

She looked around, as if the virus of paranoia Renton seemed to be debilitated with had now infected her. Eureka then ushered Jane closer, and spoke to her quietly.

"Renton thinks he saw someone last night."

"Saw someone? What do you mean?"

"He said he caught someone staring through the bedroom window, and then quickly left. It's put him on edge since then. He didn't even leave the house all weekend because of this!"

Eureka was visibly distraught with the recent events, as Jane clearly saw. To hear of someone spying on Renton, let alone even following him, didn't feel possible. He was a hero, venerated and exalted by all in this small town, and even a little beyond. How could anyone follow him, spy on him?

"I just wish he could turn to me more," Eureka lamented. "How can I make him understand that?"

Jane felt like giving her advice, but chose to hold her peace, for fear of giving her ammunition. With each passing second, the threat Eureka posed grew. So, too, did Jane's jealousy. It was at that moment when they reached her house and she thanked God that they did; Jane had no idea what she would have said to her question. As she opened the fence door and led her across the stone walkway to her front door, she tried to wish her fears away.

"Why don't we have some tea first? Let all those worries go, yes?"

Eureka smiled, appreciative of her hospitality.

"Of course, Jane. I'm sorry for spoiling the mood."

"Think nothing of it."

Eureka wandered about the inside of the house, taken aback by the ornate, decorated patterns of the sitting room. It was obvious to her that Jane came from a background with more fortunes than her own, as her family flat was bare and utilitarian by comparison. She sat on the Edwardian styled sofa and soaked in the upscale nature of Jane's abode as she went into the kitchen to make the tea.

"How do you take your tea, Eureka?"

"With lemon, if you would be so kind."

Eureka looked up at the ceiling and saw a stainless chandelier hanging in silent repose above her. She had never seen something so elegant before, as her family didn't take to buying such fancy trinkets. In a way, she felt humbled, a diffident girl from a family plagued by war and oppression in the face of all this glamour and glitter.

"Do you live here by yourself?"

"Yes, I do," Jane called from the kitchen. "My parents sent me here alone before the Blitz."

"How do you pay to live here?" Eureka asked in astonishment.

"Father regularly mails me money for rent and food. Sometimes I wish he didn't."

"Why?"

"I'd like to work. I'd like make a living on my own. And Father did say this was a lesson in self-reliance, as it were."

At that, Jane brought in a tea set made from fine china on a tray, adorned with floral designs. As she set it down on the coffee table, she watched as Eureka took her tea, anticipating her reactions.

To her surprise, Eureka conducted herself with as much finesse and restraint as the finest lady of Windsor. She held her cup daintily by the handle with only her thumb and forefinger, pinky extended. The cup was raised to her lips and she paused briefly, wafting the sweet aroma to her nostrils before drinking. Jane's ocean blue eyes narrowed as the cup tilted and she heard nary a sound from her. It seemed this was something she was all too accustomed to.

"It's delicious, Jane! Do you make this yourself?"

"I use only imported tea from England. Nothing store-bought from around here."

"Really? It is so different compared to what I had back home…"

"How do you mean?"

"Well…we brew it differently. We use a samovar to make the tea strong. We don't dip bags in water."

Jane saw a window of opportunity, and immediately jumped through it.

"Tell me more about your home, Eureka. Russia must be a fascinating country."

Eureka blushed as she almost dropped her cup. However, she smiled as she set it down on the tray and pushed through the catalog of memories of her childhood, with the days she spent alongside Renton hold a special place.

"What do you want to know?"

Jane paused for a moment, to feign contemplation. She had an answer already manufactured and prepared in her mind.

"Actually, I'd like to know how Renton was on his first visit."

Eureka's blush reddened.

"P-Renton?"

"He's always told me about how he played with you and your family," Jane admitted, laughing. "I am always hard-pressed to get him off the subject."

"Renton _does_ like to ramble on about things that matter to him…"

"So what about you? What were things for you two like?"

Eureka looked to the walls, and saw old Victorian age photographs hanging, recalling to a gentler, more sophisticated age. In the same way, her time with Renton during that summer of 1938 was a different age as well. Yet she could remember it vividly, as if it happened yesterday. She smiled with fondness and nostalgia, and began.

"They were the best days of my life…and I know of his too. We were so happy back then. Everything was bright and hopeful and free."

Jane quietly sipped her tea as Eureka continued. The more words came, the more she felt like she was falling into a spiral, desperately trying to pull herself out. Each memory Eureka recalled made the spiral deeper, the surface smoother and harder to grasp, and the fall more treacherous.

"I met him by accident, really," Eureka admitted. "He and his father weren't even planning on staying in Russia. They came to Stalingrad originally to board a ship that would take them home, but…"

She laughed in fond reminiscence.

"…there was engine trouble with the ship, and they were delayed for a month!"

Jane smiled as she mixed in a spoonful of sugar into her tea. It had suddenly become bitter, for no reason she could discern.

"They needed a place to stay until they found a way out of the country, so Father said they could stay with us."

"What sort of things would you do together?" Jane asked, curious.

Eureka's smile widened to a grin, and Jane saw her teeth shine, bright rays of the dawn that cast a light in the room. Jane's grip on her teacup tightened as she continued on, recalling one memory that stood out in particular.

"Out in the woods near the edge of the city, there was a treehouse my brothers and I built. Renton and I often played there. We liked to play truth or dare a lot."

"Truth or Dare? What sort of dares did you two do?"

Jane was genuinely intrigued. In her life of constant lessons by tutors, parties with close family friends, and many a day learning the ways of a socialite, she never had the chance to partake in a game like that. To play such a game with Renton, to have him teach her the rules, walk through the process, must surely be a unique experience.

"Oh, there were so many!" Eureka exclaimed excitedly. "One time, Vasya dared him to drink a glass of vodka. Another time Misha dared him to hang upside down from a tree for a full hour. And another time…"

She trailed off, and her cheeks turned pink again, touching a memory that was especially precious to her and to him as well. Eureka remembered it clearly as she closed her eyes for a moment, picturing it, an old reel of film playing before her. She sighed longingly as all the sensations came flooding back to her. His warm breath. His sweet words in her ear. The sweet taste of his lips. In those days when she was barely eleven, it was all fascinating, unknown, and exciting. Upon retrospect, it was the first act that sealed their bond, one that stood between them to this day.

"Another time?" Jane repeated. "Surely _you_ had a dare to give him too."

"I-I did," Eureka muttered, slightly embarrassed by it, as much as she knew she shouldn't be. "I dared him to…to…"

"To…?"

"…to kiss me."

Jane's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as Eureka smiled sheepishly at the innocent memory that now had so much meaning for both of them. She set down her tea, having suddenly lost her thirst for it. As she felt with Renton when he revealed how he failed to answer her question of love, so too did she feel a sudden, immutable pain in her heart. It was bad enough that Renton had been pining over Eureka these years, but to think they were close enough to share a kiss as children? Every muscle in her body tightened into knots, and her free hands clenched at the hem of her blue dress. A wave of emotions crashed against the shore of Jane's consciousness, with each making her fall longer, lonelier, and more excruciating by the minute. Anger. Jealousy. Suspicion. Vulnerability. Isolation. The seconds of silence between them felt like hours as Jane tried to discern what she could say to this revelation. A revelation she would much rather not be fact.

"What else did you do with him growing up?" she said, pretending unaffectedness.

"We did so many more things," Eureka said. "I could spend all day talking about them."

Indeed, she did. Through her musings and reminiscences, Jane saw a life she wished she could have led play out before her. Journeys to the country, and touring farms. Hikes with Pioneers to aid in various projects. Days spent gazing at the city from atop Mamaev Kurgan. Nights spent in celebration of new bonds forged. Joyous meetings between friends. A tearful goodbye on a station platform. Weeks upon months upon years of loneliness, punctuated by the almost constant letter. Letters provided her sanctuary, kept her spirits up, and helped her to get through the next day with a smile on her face and a strength in her heart. Theirs was a story of a friendship that, in any other circumstance, would never have lasted this long, after enduring this much.

Throughout these verbal glimpses into the past, and while she walked through the city streets yet untouched by the fires of war and suffering, a deep nonnegotiable jealousy had anchored into her mind. A rivalry had formed between two figures. One, a girl from a family who had been done in by their own country, crushed and oppressed by the misfortunes of war. Another, a girl who found escape from said war, with her family not destroyed, but simply left behind, awaiting return.

Both were in love. One had found her love in life already. The other craved what she had.

»»»»»

**April 8****th****, 1943**

While Renton continued to skin his eyes for anything suspicious, the war continued to drag on around the globe. After the crushing victory at Stalingrad, the Soviet Red Army renewed their efforts to push the German forces back from the Volga River. The result were two offensives undertaken by the Soviets, with the intent on recapturing the Ukrainian industrial city of Kharkov, where two battles had been fought earlier in the war. While the offensives in February proved initially successful in punching a hole through the weak German lines, the Soviet armies overextended themselves. The 2nd SS Panzer Corps under Erich von Manstein quickly seized the opportunity to counterattack, and broke through the armored spearheads of the Soviet forces.

The Third Battle of Kharkov ended in mid-March in a German victory, and the Soviet High Command took this reversal as a cue to pull back their forces and reassess their strategy. A lull in the fighting now presided over the Eastern Front. The Red Army nursed its wounds and consolidated its forces. The German Wehrmacht called in reinforcements, and prepared for one last attempt to regain the initiative on the Eastern Front. It would only be a matter of time.

In North Africa, the Western Allies continued in a dogged push to drive out the remaining Axis forces. In March, news reached all of a climactic tank battle in central Tunisia, between the dreaded Afrika Corps under Rommel and the US II Corps under the newly appointed George Patton. After two weeks of severe fighting, the American forces won over the battle-hardened German panzers. The Battle of El Guettar became the first American victory in Europe, and the American public breathed a long overdue sigh of relief.

For soldiers of the militia, Talho especially, life went on as normal. Patrols, cleaning duty, target practice.

However since the day she picked up that scruffy boy off the street, she had been seeing him more often. They never got a chance to talk, as she was always dragged off by Denisov on patrol, or to fetch coffee and cigars for the officers. She didn't mind it, as long as there was the prospect that one day, when she was free, she could actually have a chance to speak with him, and perhaps learn exactly what he was about.

Spring had fully embraced all in this valley town, as Talho's load on her person was greatly reduced. Still, she had to carry her rifle and ammunition around, along with her canteen. The rifle was a facade, she thought. Nothing violent ever happened here. The most she ever used it for was simply to prod at beggars and homeless vagrants to direct them to a shelter. Never had she actually used the weapon for its intended purpose. Just as well for the community her militia was charged to protect.

Denisov had called in sick with allergies, which meant Talho was charged with patrolling on her own. She welcomed a chance to get away from the incessant ramblings of her superior, and spend some time with herself. Maybe if she was lucky, she thought as she walked down a cobblestone street, she'd run into Holland again.

A general store caught her eye, with an offer of fresh doughnuts and coffee for half off. At the sight of the banner flaunting its lucrative offer, her stomach audibly growled. She clutched it with embarrassment, noting how she had nothing to eat all day. Rations had been recently cut for the regiment, and everyone, even the prideful officers sucking on the ends of their cigars, felt the pinch. Unable to resist the temptation, she cut across a small throng of passersby and made her way into the general store. Almost immediately, the aroma of piping hot coffee wrapped around her nose.

She drifted as if floating on air to the far side of the general store, guided by the strong, irresistible scent. On a small table there stood plates of doughnuts and bagels of all varieties. On the left side there was a coffee maker, with small paper cups stacked like towers. With great deliberation and care she looked across the table for anything that suited her fancy. There were glazed fritters, French beignets, and even Russian _ponchiki_, cooked the way her mother would make them. (A/N: Ponchiki: Sweet doughnuts popular in Russia and the former Soviet Union, often sold for breakfast and as coffee pastries. They are usually served with powdered sugar.)

"See anything you like, ma'am?" the vendor, a bright-eyed 12-year-old boy asked.

Talho jumped in surprise, completely missing the vendor while wrapped up in the array of pastries.

"Oh, yes! Could I have a glazed chocolate doughnut with coffee?"

"Sure thing. That'll be fifteen cents."

Talho promptly gave payment, and received her morning pick-me-up in return. She took coffee with cream and promptly drank as she looked around the general store, partaking in her impromptu breakfast. At last, she thought, some time to herself. She bit into the doughnut and was greeted by the sweet, satisfying taste. It was so delicious and satisfying, she almost missed .

Through the door came two young men, looking to be just 20 at the eldest. Both carried black hooded cardigan jackets with matching black shirts and slacks. On their hands were tight leather gloves, fidgety and kinetic. Their eyes remained fixed on the ground, avoiding contact with anyone else in the store. Standing against a corner, Talho watched them as they made their inside. At the front of the counter, the two men split in different directions. One headed towards the liquor section, and the other for the snack aisle. It was obvious to her that these men meant ill will, as they looked below the legal drinking age. She watched, content to wait and see what these men were really up to.

They confirmed her fears, as one man immediately grabbed a case of beer and the other two large bags of potato chips. Without another word, they wasted no time in exiting the store, slowly and casually at first but then breaking into a full sprint out the door.

The clerk manning the counter immediately yelled out,

"SHOPLIFTER!"

Talho didn't need that cue as she immediately drank all the remaining coffee and tossed her doughnut aside before pursuing the ne'er-do-wells out onto the street, heading straight into town.

One of the prerequisites of a militiaman was physical fitness. One did not get far without having a good deal of training under one's belt, and one certainly could not survive in combat without being in peak physical condition. Although she came into the militia through the favors of her parents, Talho proved that she was more than physically adept. Even with more than 20 pounds of ammunition and gear on her person, she still made a fast runner. The thugs saw this as well, and tried their best to lose their pursuer.

While one carrying the case of beer picked up his running pace, the other quickly sacrificed his pilfered bags of chips, throwing them in her direction. Undaunted, Talho quickly swung her rifle off her shoulders and knocked them both out of the way, leaving only the fleeing hooligan, who was now visibly losing steam.

The other thug sped on, unmindful of his partner in crime potentially falling into the hands of the law. The slowpoke called out to him for help, but he did not pay any mind. Talho immediately seized the opportunity in front of her, and leaped forward.

She crashed into the back of the thug and tackled him to the ground with her rifle stock, and cocked the weapon to provide a reminder that she was armed. She would injure him if need be. While the one subdued thug tried to struggle out of her hold, the other continued fleeing, and Talho was left with a dilemma. She could not leave this criminal alone for fear of escaping arrest, but at the same time, she could not let the accomplice get away. She had to make a choice.

"Stop or I'll fire!" she called.

She raised her rifle, aiming for the leg of the fleeing criminal. Killing him would go too far; robbery was not a crime worthy of death. She would merely incapacitate him so he would not escape until the police arrive. She slowly squeezed the trigger and prayed her shot would be on target. At that moment, the thug she had subdued quickly knocked into her, throwing off her aim and firing a shot into the air. Talho turned back to him and bashed him on the neck with the butt of her rifle to keep him quiet.

All seemed lost as the fast-legged criminal ran farther and farther, but the shot distracted him long enough that he bumped into a young man. Someone familiar to Talho. He was her age, with a yellow scarf draped around his neck, wearing a black jacket and grey slacks, tucked into boots. His grey hair was tousled and unfettered, and his sky blue eyes were clear as day from a distance. Talho smiled as he was just the boy she wanted to see.

The criminal was knocked off his feet, dropping the case of beer and staring up at the boy who formed a block to his escape. The boy looked perplexed, and promptly asked in a strange alien language,

"Kuda viy idyotye v takoi speshkye?" (A/N: Where are you going in such a hurry?)

The criminal tilted his head in confusion. This child obviously spoke no English. Unmindful that he was making no sense, the boy pressed on in his inquiry.

"Shto zdyes' proiskhodit?" (A/N: What's going on here?)

Talho called out to the boy, asking for his help.

"Oy, Holland! Astanovi yevo!" (A/N: Stop him!)

Not wanting to be caught flatfooted, the thug tried to make a break for it and sidestepped Holland. However Holland reacted quickly and tackled the hooligan, landing a punch to his jaw. When he still tried to make a break for it, Holland kicked him hard in the shins and knocked him down to his knees, only to be kicked in the back and then dragged over to Talho. She thanked him profusely for his help, as she pulled up the accomplice she had subdued and restrained both of them.

"Thanks for that," Talho said, smiling as they escorted them back to the general store.

"Eta nye problema. The least I could do. How'd you run into these guys anyway?" (A/N: It's no problem)

"Robbed a general store. I was standing right there having coffee when they did it. You'd think they'd be smart enough to know a militia soldier will come after them."

When they reached the store, they found two police officers and a squad car waiting for them, ready to take them in. After explaining the account to the officers, the thugs were turned over and then quickly taken away, leaving the young soldier and her young newly found friend a chance to be together. Talho wasted no time in asking Holland go along with her on her weekly watch.

"Are you doing anything right now?" Talho asked casually.

"Nyet. Why?"

"I'm supposed to be on patrol, but my CO called in sick. Would you…"

Her cheeks flushed pink in slight embarrassment at the question. This was akin to asking him on a date, a prospect that surely to him would be sudden.

"…would you…care to join me? I could use the company."

Holland smiled, showing her two gold teeth, one replacing an eye tooth, and the other a molar. Obviously he had encountered resistance while on his way to America.

"Sure. I've got nothing else to do."

"Wonderful! I'm so glad you could. It gets rather lonely with no one to talk to on patrol."

"Don't you talk with your CO?"

"It's not so much talking," she said, rolling her eyes in disdain at the thought, "more like I'm listening to him and I never get a word in edgewise."

Holland chuckled as they walked together into town.

"I knew a police officer in Stalingrad who was like that. Once you caught his eye, he'd never stop telling you all his stories. One day he took down Trotsky, the other he caught a straggler from the White Army, and the other he knew a Cossack in Georgia…" (A/N: Holland is referring to the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic, situated in the South Caucasus, which is now the current Republic of Georgia.)

Talho nodded as Holland laughed at the innocent memory. As they reached the town square, the conversation veered into his current state of affairs, something Talho was desperate to know.

"How's your recovery?"

"It's all right, I suppose," Holland said unaffectedly, shrugging. "I certainly don't have to settle for table scraps for dinner anymore. And having a bed to sleep in is a nice touch."

"What about your wound?"

Holland looked at her quizzically.

"The one on your shoulder," she reminded him.

Holland gently rubbed his shoulder, remembering the wound that had so plagued him in his journey out of Russia and across the oceans. His shoulder still smarted from Chertov's bullet, and he winced slightly as he ran his hand over it.

"It's not as bad as when I got it. Renton took me to a hospital last week to see if there was anything to be done with it."

"And?"

"Doctors put some antiseptic on it to prevent infection and sewed it up. It still hurts a bit."

"How did you get that wound, anyway? Was it in Stalingrad?"

"Yes. In fact, it was on the very day I left. Some pipsqueak soldier tried to kill me and left me for dead."

"Why did he try to kill you?"

"I helped Renton and Eureka escape. I gave them the means to get out of the country. Apparently being a good friend and brother is an act of treason."

Talho and Holland took a seat on a bench in the square, watching the children play in the courtyard outside the coffee shop, old men play chess, and a homeless man playing the flute beneath the shade of a cypress tree. It was a peaceful scene that fascinated Holland, but was uninspiring to Talho. She had seen this so many times before in her life in this town. Holland had such calm memories wrenched away and consigned to the ashbin with the coming of war.

She looked to her friend, who was lost in the sight before him. She realized now how different he looked after being swept off the street and reconditioned. His grey hair no longer had dirt or oil stuck in its strands, although it still retained a windswept appearance. His blue eyes struck out from his face, watching as little children ran across the brick courtyard and gathered around the flutist, entranced by his strange tune. He had a new set of clothes as well, obviously throwing in his old rags from his days on the street.

Except, of course, for his yellow scarf, wrapped around his neck in an ascot-like fashion.

"Truthfully," Holland said with a heavy sigh, "I don't know what he hoped to gain from killing me. Sometimes I think he was just born cursing the world that shunned him."

Talho scratched her head in confusion.

"What?"

"Nothing," Holland replied resignedly. "Just rambling. I tend to do that a lot."

"I don't mind it. Only…how exactly do you know Renton? I know you said you're his friend, but…"

Holland adjusted his scarf, and gave an explanation, one that was overdue for her. She deserved to know at least something, considering how she rescued him from the fetid life of a vagabond.

"When he first came to Stalingrad, he was not intending to stay. Really, the fact we met was sheer luck. His ship had broken down and he was stranded for a month. My father offered our home to him, and he gladly took it."

Holland smiled as a bright-eyed blonde child of 12 ran past him, harkening an image of his friend during the years of peace and hope.

"He was a staunch ally, a reliable defender, and a good friend. I guess you could say he is like a brother to me."

"I don't have many friends like that, Holland Petrovich," Talho lamented. "The only people in my life are my parents…and my officers. I've been raised in a sheltered life."

"Sometimes your relatives are your best friends, Talho Igorevna. In the worst episodes of our lives, they may be the only friends we will ever have."

Talho laughed quietly at his optimism, despite all the privations he had to endure to come here. He truly must have a strong heart to think that after the world tossed him aside and his own country betrayed him. However, the knowledge that he came to this country fleeing from something left her with more questions than answers. Of greater mystery still was the claim this boy had that led to their still forming friendship in the first place: an evil lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike, with Renton Thurston as its target.

"Holland, you said before how Renton was in danger. That something was coming for him. What did you mean by that?"

"I'm sure I told you," Holland recounted, "but it's someone who hates him, and wants revenge."

"See, I can't get over that!" Talho said in disturbance, turning to him. "Who could possibly hate him so much to come this far to kill him?"

"I wish I knew why he hated Renton, but all I know is he does. And I fear he hates Renton far more than we all love him. Worse yet, I fear he may already be here."

Talho was now more puzzled than before. An enemy of unknown origin had snuck into the country, without anyone knowing about it? Surely the militia would have received word of some suspicious activity. But there had been nothing. There were only the monotonous reports of tranquility day in and day out, the same reports that drove her mad with frustration.

"Here?" Talho asked, unsure of what this meant. "What do you mean? Who is here? Has Renton been threatened already?"

"No, not threatened," Holland responded with some hesitation. "But something did happen recently that spooked him…and I have a feeling it may be connected."

He turned to her with ice cold blue eyes, not possessed by a lifelessness, but possessed by fear. Fear of what was to come, and what might already be upon them.

"A couple weeks ago, Renton woke up in the middle of the night. He said he saw someone peering through his window, watching him sleep. He searched his house and the yard for signs of the intruder, but found nothing. It has him on edge…and I fear with good reason. Talho, you saved me from a life on the streets, and I am indebted to you for that, but may I ask of you a favor?"

Talho was taken aback by his pleading and sincerity. But just as she could not refuse his call for help when he was on the street, alone and afraid, neither could she refuse to hear him out now. She sensed a trembling in his body, and gently placed one hand on his, swallowing her own discomfiture at holding a boy's hand.

"Holland, you can ask me anything."

He nodded, and tried to find the right words for his request.

"Is there any way…in the militia, that is…that you could put in an order…like an investigation or be put on high alert?"

She was not expecting such a request. It sounded like a trifling one, but in the militia such orders were hard to put through. One could hardly expect an order that was based on nothing more than mere suspicion of a former vagrant to be taken seriously by high-ranking officers. The task seemed almost doomed from the start. Obviously Holland cared deeply for his friend, deeply enough to entreat a soldier whom he barely knew or even spoken with to hear his request. More obvious still was the fact that such an order may not come to fruition.

"I know that I shouldn't be asking you this," he said with a slight tremor in his voice. "We've only known each other for a week, and I haven't even spoken with you more than once, but this is really important to me. I fear if nothing is done, it may be too late. Please?"

The young female soldier was captured by this boy's loyalty to his friend, a surrogate member of his shattered family. She never met anyone with such a strong dedication to one who, in any other circumstance, would have been forgotten long ago had it not been for the coming of war that would herald his return. Secretly she was rather envious of him, having a dear friend who he could always turn to and seek support from. She, on the other hand, had only the influence of her father and the goodwill from her commanding officer Denisov keeping her in the militia. Even there, she barely had anyone who she could call "friend." There were only those who gave her orders, gave her messes to clean up, and gave her odd jobs to keep her busy and out of the way. This former wanderer, this nomad of the pavement, this refugee from a place that she and her family would hail from in another time and place, was really the first friend she ever had. With all that in mind, how could she possibly deny him?

"You are a loyal person, Holland Petrovich," Talho said with a smile. "I shall give you that."

She stood up from the bench, slinging her rifle over her shoulder as she watched the children play and dance around the flutist.

"I can certainly put in an order. But I should warn you: I'm just a private first class. I don't hold much power in the militia. In fact, the only reason I am even _in_ the militia is on account of my parents, and the officers are all arrogant, hardnosed bastards. So if nothing comes of it…"

"…I understand, Talho Igorevna," Holland responded ingenuously. "Just putting in the order is enough for me. I know it all sounds crazy, but you just need to believe me."

"Of course I believe you."

Talho then turned to him, grinning from ear to ear as her ebony black hair swayed in the wind.

"You're my friend, after all."

Holland smiled in turn, and stood up, wincing slightly from the wound in his shoulder. It would be some time before he could truly bury his past and start over. But having an ally in this militia soldier, an outcast in her own right like he was, was a good start. It was enough for him to say,

"Thank you, my friend."

"Sure. Now, would you like to join me for some coffee?"

"I would like nothing better."

So it was that the two of them crossed the courtyard, cutting through the crowd of children and paying the homeless piper who was desperate for a charitable donation. They shared their coffee and a biscuit inside the cafe. In exchange, they stayed together for the remainder of the day, patrolling through town until after her shift was over, and even beyond that. When the sun yawned and retired beyond the horizon, casting a gentle glow over the town, Talho offered to escort him home, as he still needed to learn the trappings and layout of his new home. In so doing, he gained a new friend, one he could depend on and turn to. And she had a confidant, one more understanding and open than Denisov could hope to be.

* * *

**A/N: Again, I am sorry for the long wait, but I appreciate anyone who has been following this. You have the patience of a saint. Any suggestions, advice, or speculation on what you'd like to see is most welcomed and well-appreciated. Thank you all.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Better late than never as they say. Work has kicked my ass again, this time for three whole weeks. But enough excuses. Chapter 12 is here and it is more action packed than the last one. Expect the same for Chapter 13 as well. Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**October 17th, 1940**

**Stalingrad, USSR**

It was getting on in time. Just past eight in the evening, according to the clock hanging in the young agent's office. Although the NKVD prided itself on always being ready for any action at any time, her shift was over and the time had come to return to her flat. Her stomach growled in hunger as she reached for her blue cloak and hood. She was in need of a filling meal and a stiff, cold drink. Maybe a plate of pelmeny with sour cream and beer? Or maybe a bowl of borscht and kvass2?

(A/N: Pelmeny: dumplings consisting of a filling wrapped in thin layers of dough. The filling is often meat (pork, lamb or beef), fish, or mushrooms. It is a traditional part of Russian cuisine, and is common in Russia and other former Soviet countries. Kvass: A nonalcoholic fermented beverage made from bread, popular in Russia and the former Soviet Union.)

As she placed her visor cap on her head, an officer in his mid-30s came bursting in, almost shaking the room by the force with which he flung open the door. His dark eyes were wide-eyed and frantic, as if he had just witnessed a gruesome murder. His black hair was windswept and looked like a hurricane had wreaked havoc on his head. The officer was panting, and sweat was plainly visible on his brow.

"Agent 55?"

"340, we have a situation, and it's urgent."

"What kind of situation?" 340 replied, raising an eyebrow. "I was just about to head home."

"This is a special case, I'm afraid. The commissar will brief us all about it."

Not minding that her shift was already over, 340 followed 55 out of her and into the briefing room, which fast became swarmed by other agents from her division. Obviously, this call was something special, one important enough to warrant them all working overtime. She just hoped it wasn't another assignment destined to keep her cooped up in her office until dawn. The last time she had pulled an all-nighter, it was writing a municipal report to the Oblast soviet3 on the yearly crimes of subversion and dissension in her division. They all approached with marked cautiousness the desk of the commissar.

(A/N: Soviet in this context refers to the workers' council, which formed the means of legislative and executive power. The soviets begin at the local level and extend up to form a national parliament-like assembly.)

The commissar was a career officer, a foot soldier of the Revolution. He was in his early 50s, and his hair was graying, but he still proved to be a capable officer. He was known for boasting about his exploits in the early days of the Revolution and the subsequent civil war, rattling on stories about how he helped the Bolsheviks secure power from the bourgeois clique. The commissar even claimed to know Lenin personally when he still lived, and single-handedly convinced Stalin that Trotsky had become a counterrevolutionary. In the times since then, he had been consigned to this position, the head of a division of security in this city on the Volga.

"I am sorry for calling you all on such short notice, comrades," the commissar said in his gravelly voice, "but we have a situation that demands our immediate attention."

The commissar produced a case file, which 340 cautiously looked over. She feared it might be for the commissar's eyes only. A small photograph was clipped onto to the file folder, showing what she presumed to be the cause of trouble.

A dark-haired man in his mid-30s, with stubble on his chin, his wrinkled brow like a mountain crag. He looked to be an unassuming and inoffensive figure, hardly the kind to be involved in acts of sedition. Just as Agent 55 was about to raise objections, the commissar spoke.

"His name is Godunov. Aleksandr Antonovich Godunov. He's a columnist for _Izvestia_." (A/N: Izvestia: Besides Pravda (meaning "truth"), one of the primary newspapers in the Soviet Union, primarily reporting on Soviet state politics and world news. Literally means News.)

"With all respect, comrade," said a female agent with auburn hair cut in bangs, "what has he done to earn our ire?"

The commissar produced another file, this time a cutout from last week's issue of _Izvestia_. The cutout was taken from the op-ed section, and the title of the piece was enough for his indictment.

**Non-Aggression Pact: Molotov's Folly**

_In light of the fall of France this past June and the ongoing battle for Britain, one must wonder what has been gained from our non-aggression agreement signed between Foreign Ministers Molotov and Ribbentrop last year. A continent in ruins. A dark cloud cast by the heel of the fascist jackboot. The forces of oppression are marching through Europe. We have, in effect, given Herr Hitler and his Nazi Party carte blanche to have free reign over Europe in a vain attempt to divide Europe amongst ourselves. We as a nation have given away the store and in time the Fuhrer will look to us with the hope of ripe plums ready to fall into his lap. Almost all of Europe already has._

_What has been gained from Comrade Molotov's agreement? Merely a temporary reprieve from a war against fascism that is all but inevitable. The game is already up for capitalist Europe, and unless we take the threat fascism already poses seriously, the game may be up for our Revolution, our Workers' Paradise, and our dream of global socialism as well. If Germany turns its eyes to our nation as its next target for expansion, the only people to blame will be the traitors of the proletariat like Molotov, who naively believed the wolf would pass by the opened door._

"He wrote a seditious article indicting our allies," the commissar stated. "He called Comrade Molotov a traitor to his class. This is high treason, comrades."

"What would you have us do, then, sir?" the female agent asked.

"You are to proceed to his residency and apprehend him by any means necessary."

"And when we do, sir?"

At that question, the commissar visibly hesitated, as if withholding information from them all for fear of repercussions. 340 had a feeling she knew already what was to be done with him: the punishment deserving of all traitors to the Nation, the Party, and the Revolution. There was only one such punishment suitable for such a crime: swift and sudden death. Surely the commissar meant to spare the new, untested agents of the harsh realities that came with serving. Something she had to acquaint herself with firsthand the minute she was inducted, and something she had personally been grappling with ever since.

The commissar dismissed them and gave them the address at which to find and apprehend their culprit. The agents all said nothing to each other as they gathered their respective weapons from their respective lockers. Each agent silently and internally prepared themselves for what was to come in the next hour. It would be a scene 340 would rather not see play out, but one she had consigned herself to as a loyal Party member, and a devoted servant of the State.

Each agent was assigned to a team that rode in a designated patrol car, each with a number and holding four people. 340 joined her squad leader and quietly slipped into the backseat of the car, not minding the incessant chatter of her officer and fellow agents as they drove along through the city streets, illuminated only by the dim lampposts that marked each street block, the traffic lights shining dark green and then bright red, and the lamps from building windows casting an incandescent glow on the pavements.

The muffled splash of water as the car ran through a puddle provided a soft lullaby for 340 as she leaned against the window, trying to get at least a bit of sleep in. Undoubtedly, she was in for a long night if the previous missions had taught her anything. In truth, this kind of work was normal, and she was overdue for catching a counterrevolutionary. All month she had merely picked up petty vagrants and went after common criminals. To go after a traitor now was a much-needed perk, something that would give her some excitement that was sorely lacking the past few weeks.

A couple passed the car by, holding onto each other dearly and with clear affection. Both were wrapped up in woolen coats, as the night proved chilly. It was a good thing she came with her cloak and hood, 340 thought to herself. As her car turned a corner she spotted the Barmaley Fountain, with the statues of young children dancing around an alligator. The water was still running, despite no one being there to see it. A small chortle escaped her lips as they drove on past it, and reminded her of her school days, dancing with her classmates around that same fountain, enjoying the refreshing sense of water splashing their skins and dampening their clothes. Then adulthood came, and with it, responsibility and a career.

Life seemed to move slower in the darkness of the city, with shops closing their doors and people returning to their homes. As her eyelids slowly grew heavier and heavier, she imagined her flat waiting for her to return, her newly made bed calling out to her like a siren. What she would not give to have the comfort of being wrapped in her linens and enjoying the sweets of sleep right now! Just as her vision grew dark and there was nothing but the hum of the engine, the car stopped.

She was awoken with a jolt, as Agent 55, who had been driving the whole time, looked over his shoulder to his colleague and comrade.

"Wake up sleepyhead," he cajoled, bemused. "We're here."

340 looked outside the window and saw a 10-story apartment building, with the lights all lit up. As she exited the car, she heard the loud, rambunctious cacophony of celebration, jeers, cheers, and tango music from inside the building. 55 reminded them all of what was their mission, and what had to be done to ensure the satisfaction of the law.

"Remember: we are to apprehend him by any means necessary. This man has committed sedition, and it cannot be allowed to stand."

The car was parked just outside of the apartment building in plain sight for all passersby to bear witness. As she and the other agents traveled around the car to the trunk, 340 heard the distinct, melancholic verses of the tango, being played out on a scratchy record player.

_The weary sun  
Bade a tender farewell to the sea.  
At that hour you confessed  
That you have no love for me._

She chose her weapon from the miniature arsenal in the back of the car: a new model of submachine gun, called a PPD-40, with a drum magazine. 55 chose a semiautomatic revolver for his weapon, and the others chose the new Tokarev automatic pistol. All cocked their weapons and checked to see they were full on ammunition, however 340 knew as well as anyone that they would not need much ammunition to carry out this punishment. Without a word to anyone and with no thought to herself, they both rushed the apartment building.

_I became a little sad  
Without longing, without sorrow.  
At that hour your words  
Rang out._

340 banged on the wooden door, ordering any carouser who was not inebriated or passed out to let them in.

"Interior Ministry! Open the door!"

There was only the inharmonious sound of laughter, chatting, and glass breaking against the walls. It sounded like quite a festival, she thought, as 55 stopped her from banging on the door again.

"Sometimes, 340, you need to take the more subtle approach."

55 demonstrated, by banging loudly on the door, and calling out in a less confrontational tone.

"Comrades! I heard there was a party going on here and everyone was invited! I'd like in, if you wouldn't mind!"

As if by magic, 55's tantalizing words worked and the door was opened…to reveal a slovenly blonde-haired denizen in nothing but a white shirt, black cardigan, and striped boxers. In his hand he held a vodka bottle by the neck, and his breath reeked of the substance as he slurred a greeting.

"D-d-d-dobriy vecher', tovarischi!5 So you (HIC!) wwwwwant in on the p-p-p-party, eh?" (A/N: Good evening, comrades!)

340 sighed. Another vagrant to pester them and obstruct them in their duty. She, 55, and the two other agents swiftly stepped in, producing their Interior Ministry badges and pushing aside the drunkard. Immediately he came to ask what was the matter. It was not normal for Interior Ministry agents to join in revelry, unless they were off-duty. Even then, they only painted the town red by themselves.

"Issssssss there a (HIC!) officer, comrade problem?"

"We're looking for someone," 340 noted, trying to

"Then look no further! You (HIC!) found someone, I'd say! In fact, you f-f-f-found (HIC!) PLENTY of someones!"

340 shot a glare at the drunkard as he took a swig from his bottle with loud gulps. So disgusting, she thought to herself. The stanzas of the tango provided consolation to her as he continued on his drunken ramblings.

_I haven't the strength to feel anger,_

_You and I_

_Are to blame._

"We're here for an Aleksandr Godunov," she said, interrupting. "Does he live here or doesn't he?"

"Oh, you mean Shurik? He's here, comrade (HIC!) officer. On the fifth floor, to be exact. However…"

The drunkard ushered her closer, as if the next words from his lips would be sensitive in nature. His head disappeared underneath her hood as he whispered. The penchant stench of liquor became more acute as his words tickled her ear.

"…I'd suggest you (HIC!) come back in the m-m-m-morning. That fellow is out cold and has q-q-q-q-q-quite the hangover."

"His inebriated state is of no concern to me. Godunov has committed a crime he must answer for. Now, tell me what room he is in."

The drunkard backtracked, almost bumping into a scantily clad woman, carousing with another drunk vagrant. The tango's last stanza was sung in sync to his attempt to rise and console the officer whose patience was fast wearing thing.

_The weary sun_

_Bade a tender farewell to the sea._

_At that hour you confessed_

_That you have no love for me._

"C-c-c-calm down, officer. I'm just thinking (HIC!) of what w-w-w-w-w-would be b-b-b-better for you. He'd much more cooperative if (HIC!) you came back when he's sober…"

The drunkard leaned in, inches away from her face with a seductive stare in his dark eyes. The smell of vodka was even more nauseating than before.

"I'll make it worth your while…you (HIC!) seem the lonely type…"

340's eyes widened to the size of saucers as his lips gently touched hers in a kiss. Suddenly she felt lifted off the ground, floating above the earth on a cloud. The feeling was short-lived as she slapped him hard across the face, and slapped herself back into the here and now. The drunkard staggered back and fell onto a circular wooden table, almost breaking it in two. Fear took possession of his eyes as he now trembled before the officer. This man was now sorely out of line, and she could easily arrest him if she wanted to. She reached for her submachine gun and cocked it, aiming at the drunkard's abdomen.

"You drunken, loathsome, slovenly filth!" she spluttered angrily, fire in her sky blue eyes. "Tell me what room Godunov is in or so help me, I will spare you a trial by putting a bullet through your head!"

The drunkard raised a shaky hand, begging her for mercy.

"P-p-please, comrade officer (HIC!)…I m-meant nothing by it…you'll f-f-find him in Room 58. Please…don't kill me!"

Having gotten the information she needed, 340 shouldered her weapon. 55 led the way to the elevators, pushing through the crowd of drunken partiers and enduring the dance of disorderly denizens and racy-dressed women. As the elevator closed, 340 shuddered in disgust at what had transpired.

"Any of you have mouthwash?"

"What for?" 55 asked.

"That drunk tried to kiss me. My breath is going to smell like liquor for a week."

"You know, 340," the female agent said, smiling wryly, "maybe you could use a boyfriend. Would help with your stress levels, maybe."

"I prefer to entertain those thoughts when I am off-duty, 1246," 340 shot back, annoyed.

A small chuckle ran through the elevator car as they reached the fifth floor. As the elevator doors slid open, 55 readied his pistol, expecting the worst. However there was nothing greeting them, except the muffled cheers and yells of celebration from the party downstairs. The occasion must be monumental for such a party to be held so late, and to involve as many people as it did. 340 and the others exited the elevator and turned right, looking for the room and any sign of Godunov. All feared that maybe Godunov knew what was in store for him, and he had beaten the authorities in capturing and executing him. It was not unheard of for those cornered by the secret police to give into suicide rather than be made a spectacle before the public. With caution and guns at the ready, they approached the small flat, the number 58 rusted on the wall.

"How should we approach this?" 1246 asked. "The drunk _did_ say he was passed out."

"It doesn't matter," 55 retorted. "We take him, passed out or not. We'll force him out."

"And if he's already dead?"

"Then we clean up the mess and dispose of Godunov. Simple."

55 bust open the door and all four agents moved in. What they found was rather mundane, but 340 spotted something that made her cringe.

In the middle of the room was a table where there sat a woman, clad only in her undergarments, primping her hair before a personal mirror. The sudden intrusion of the officers sent her scurrying away off to the bathroom with a shriek. Further to the back was a pristine bed lined with satin sheets. On the bed lay a bare-chested dark-haired man, clearly in an exhausted state. Next to him sat the bed stand, where a chrome plate resided with a straight razor blade, a rolled up paper tube, and thin strips of white powder. A distinctive smell wafted into her nostrils and made her wrinkle her nose in repulsion. It was cocaine.

"Kto tam?6" the man, presumably Godunov, asked lazily, barely conscious. (A/N: Who's there?)

The man raised his head to face the quartet of agents, who all stood shoulder to shoulder at the foot of the bed.

"Aleksandr Godunov," 340 announced, "you are hereby under arrest."

"Eh?" Godunov asked confusedly.

His head fell back onto the pillow as he heard the charges levied against him.

"For authoring seditious literature indicting our allies and undermining the State."

"To expedite the tribunal and execution process," 55 put in, "we suggest that you dress yourself of your own volition. Then we shall not have to resort to unnecessary force."

Godunov rolled over in his bed, showing that he was completely naked underneath his satin sheets.

"Kiss my ass," he muttered.

55 nodded to 340 and 1246, and they came to the side of the bed, both grabbing him by the arms. Godunov fought them vehemently as he struggled to remain in his bed. All the while, he hurled insults at them, berating them for being the puppets on strings, pawns in some scheme.

"Get off me, you bureaucratic whores! You have got no right!"

After a battle that seemed to rage for hours, Godunov was dressed (at gunpoint) and escorted out of the building. After packing him into the car, they drove on into the night, towards the city limits and away from the prying eyes of any bystander who may come to witness state-sponsored retribution.

On the highway to Moscow, there was a pit dug on the side of the road. Two guards stood at attention, hailing the car as it approached the pit. The car slowed to a stop, and all occupants, including the prisoner, exited the vehicle. Godunov no longer had the fire of resistance in his eyes; there was only the stone cold anticipation of what fate awaited him. There was no hope, not in this world. Not in a place where God was a myth. Not in a place where being against the Great Leader while supporting the Revolutionary ideal was a crime. Not in a place where calling out the devil incarnate, naming it for what it truly was, only earned vilification in the eyes of the State.

He walked alone to his grave, where he would lay unknown, unremembered, and mourned by no one. His existence would be wiped from records. A nonperson, a nobody merely numbered among the countless others who would fall in his wake.

"Halt," called 55.

Godunov, with the look of a man who knew death was nigh for him, turned around to the quartet of officers. There was no emotion on his face, or in the gaze from his glassy, bloodshot eyes.

55 nodded to 340, expecting her to perform the deed and complete the order for the night. She produced her PPD-40 and aimed it at his silhouette, only made distinguishable by the moonlight. The cocking of her weapon echoed across the empty, lonely Eurasian steppe. Out here, no one could hear them, and no one would know of the passing of this man into the abyss of death.

"Any last words?" 1246 pried at the man.

Godunov stood defiantly and buttoned his coat. As he did, he gave his last will and testament. His statement of defiance. His surrender of body, and not of mind.

"You made a deal with the devil," he jeered as he struggled with his collar. "That agreement between Molotov and Ribbentrop is just a temporary ceasefire. Fascism cannot be content until it's destroyed everything. There will come a day when Germany turns on us, and our hope for peace with the monster will have been for nothing. And the price for our folly will be paid in blood."

"Is that all?" 55 replied dryly.

Godunov's eyes shot a glare through the darkness, as he took one last act of defiance. Raising a fist into the air in the traditional communist salute, he cried, loud enough to echo across the cold, barren steppe,

"SLAVA REVOLUTSII!" (A/N: Glory to the Revolution!)

340 pulled on the trigger of her PPD-40, and a hailstorm of bullets struck and killed Godunov. He died with his fist clenched tightly, as if grabbing hold of some rope that would guide him to a nonexistent heaven. The body fell backwards into the pit and landed with a hard thud, ending the life of a journalist who had defied the State and spoke on principle rather than party politics. As the guards proceeded to bury the remains of their dissenter, 340 could not help but feel an inkling of regret over what had transpired.

Surely, the man was a traitor. Traitors had to be made examples of. But what of his family? What of his drunken friends still partying at the flat? What of the barely clothed woman who stayed with him until their arrival sent her fleeing for cover? In truth, was his line of thinking not valid in itself? Was this agreement made between their Great Leader and Germany's Fuhrer really made to last? Was it really just a prolonging of the inevitable conflict that would surely come between their two nations?

All these questions and far more danced a jig in her head as she leaned on the window, and drifted off to sleep. All she desired was her bed. Her bed, and a night to think.

»»»»»

**April 18th, 1943**

**Bellforest, California, USA**

Try as he might, Renton just could not sleep. He had a sinking feeling of something coming. What that something was, he could not determine. It was hidden in the shadows, illusive, slithering away just as he reached out to grab it. So he lay on his bed, awake, lying next to Eureka. She was turned away from him, fast asleep. Not even the rumbling of a tank could wake her up.

Coming to sleep with her in the same bed was more born out of necessity rather than an actual desire to do so on Renton's part. With Holland sleeping on the couch, and William taking his father's bed, he was left with no other choices. Sleeping in the armchair was not exactly a healthy alternative. Eureka gladly offered him the choice of sleeping with her, and he took it with some reluctance. In truth, he was still getting used to the idea that he was her boyfriend, and she his girlfriend. He had never been in love with anyone else before her. He was too young to understand what that meant for him.

Those days he spent with her in Stalingrad were some of the best days of his life, and further evidence to him that he loved her right from the start. How else could he explain the gripping loneliness he felt for years afterward? What else drove him to write his letters to her? One word was enough to answer all of those questions. No better explanation could be offered.

The feeling was exhilarating and yet calming. It provided an anchor for him, a ship lost in the great port of life, searching for a berth. She was a person to turn to when his heart felt troubled. Her words gave him guidance and comfort when he felt astray and distraught. Her touch gave him warmth when the world turned cold.

His hand gently parted the long train of her dark brown hair to expose the nape of her neck. Her skin was smooth and soft to his fingers. It was at that moment he realized how pale Eureka's skin was; whiter than all the snow in Siberia. To an unfamiliar eye, her complexion betrayed foreign origins and gave her a strange otherworldly quality, but to him it was simply evidence of who she was, how long she had known him, and how little of her had changed in four years.

Breathing slowly, he gently kissed her on the neck, which provoked a small shudder down her spine and a quiet moan. It was such a harmonious sound to him, and left him wanting more. His lips cautiously placed another kiss on her, slightly lower on the neck, which made her shift in her sleep. One arm crept around her slim waist, the gentle sound of her white nightgown sifting beneath his fingers. She eased into his embrace, as if she was full conscious of his actions. Was she awake?

"Eureka?"

No response came from her. Nor did he need one.

Renton shifted closer to Eureka, and took in her scent, smelling faintly of sunflower seeds. She was beautiful in every way, and every aspect of her calmed him, lulling his senses. With another kiss to her neck, he was about to drift off into sleep when a sound awoke him immediately.

"I think they're asleep."

In an instant, all of his senses were on high alert, as he looked around his purview for any clue as to where the words came from. It was a female voice, quite young by the sound of it. At least his age, if he was not mistaken. He looked on the plain white walls and eyed the shadow of the windows. There stood the head of a figure, covered by her hood and obviously spying on him. There was no mistake; this was the same woman who peered through his window that night last month.

Renton in milliseconds weighed the options, wondering what course of action to take. Last time he turned to look at her, he sent her and surely whatever accomplices she had scurrying away into the darkness. However, if he did nothing, he along with Eureka and Holland might very well be killed in their sleep. He stayed still, pretending to be asleep, and listening carefully for anything that could give a hint as to who she was and why she was here. A bead of sweat ran down his brow as every muscle tightened in anxiety. The voice spoke again.

"He's definitely asleep. We can start."

We? There were more than just her? How many? And what was it all for? Renton resisted every temptation to leap to his feet and run out the door to confront the intruder…or intruders. He had to wait. He had to plan a strategy. He had to devise a way to win against them, or he and everyone in this house could well be dead.

The figure moved away from the window, to the left. Thankfully the intruder bought his ploy, and he was free to move.

Wasting no time, he hopped out of his bed, clad only in a bleached white shirt and boxers and went straight to his closet. Opening it carefully so as not to awake anyone, he looked through the shadows to find what he needed. It was propped up in the corner, tucked away in a small zipper-locked bag. He quietly opened the bag, and pulled out its contents: his father's 1903 Springfield rifle.

It was an old gun, dating back to his childhood days on the farm. His father used it when training him and his brother to hunt in the backcountry, going after wild turkeys and pheasants, and even the coyotes that threatened their livestock. He also used it in the trenches of the Great War, that horrible conflict that ripped Europe asunder almost 30 years ago. It was a rifle he hoped he would never have to use, but now was forced to in defense of his home and loved ones.

Renton said a silent prayer as he quickly loaded five rounds into the chamber of the rifle.

_Lord, give me strength to protect this house, and all who dwell within it. Give me the strength to vanquish those who wish me and my loved ones harm. Forgive me for what I must do, oh Lord._

He tiptoed out of the bedroom, the door creaking as he opened it to the hallway. The slightest inadvertent sound could be a giveaway to the attackers. Moving towards the small living room, he spotted Holland still fast asleep on the sofa, facing the ceiling. A linen sheet was spread lazily over his body, exposing one bare foot on the edge of the sofa. Renton suppressed a snicker as he heard him snore loudly. He had to be serious. This was life-threatening.

He looked to his right and saw the front door. There was no to the outside, so he could only rely on what he heard. As Renton crept closer, he heard a soft scraping sound. It sounded like metal rubbing against metal. Rattling, grating against walls. The sound was coming from the door, and he instantly recognized what was happening: the lock was being picked open. Renton mentally noted to himself he would have to call the local locksmith after this, but he wondered if merely changing the locks would do him any good. All that he could do was repel the attackers.

"It will be them," he said quietly, aiming down his iron sight. "Not us."

As he waited patiently, he heard muttering from outside.

"I've almost got it," said a female voice. "Just a little bit more."

"340," asked another, slightly higher pitched female voice, "are you sure he was asleep?"

"Positive. Out cold."

Renton chuckled quietly.

"You're in for a surprise, then…"

The door lock opened with a_ click_, and Renton brought the butt of the rifle tight into his shoulder. His aim was a slightly shaky, as his eyes were still growing adjusted to the light. Nevertheless he awaited what was to come next. The knob turned, and the hinges squeaked as the door cracked open. In walked two dark figures, about his height. Their faces were concealed by the hooded cloaks they wore over their forms. One figure, shorter than the other, took two steps in, and brandished a semiautomatic pistol, the finish glinting in the moonlight as it shone through the living room window. He recognized the design of it immediately. It was a pistol he carried with him in Stalingrad, one given out only to officers.

They were Soviets.

Holland was right. Something was coming, and it came from across the ocean. From the land he wanted so hard to forget. If these were Soviets, then Chertov was undoubtedly behind this. Renton held his breath, debating in his mind what to do. He couldn't kill them; he had to know what they were about. He couldn't let them just waltz into the house either. The shorter figure took another step in and turned its head towards him. His green eyes widened, as their visions connected in one split-second. The figure's eyes struck out from underneath the hood. They were hazel in color, much like the grass on an autumn day. The eyes narrowed, and a voice whispered.

"He's awake! He's here!"

The figure raised its pistol and aimed in Renton's direction, but Renton would have none of it.

He pulled the trigger and fired, and the rifle spoke with a crack. The shot rang out like a fire bell in the night, and the muzzle blast briefly lit up the room, and exposed his attackers. They were both young girls, easily in their late teens. The girl with the pistol had orange hair worn in a double bun and hazel eyes, and looked to be the younger of the two. Her accomplice had short light blonde hair and pale blue eyes, looking older, perhaps in her early twenties. She didn't have a weapon on her Renton could see, but he was not going to take chances.

A bullet whizzed through the air and cut through her upper arm. Blood erupted from the wound as the orange-haired girl relinquished her grip on the pistol. She fell backwards onto the floor, staining her cloak and the wooden floorboards red as she called to her accomplice in an anguish-filled voice,

"340, run! Get out of here!"

"But, 909—!" the other figured protested.

The entire house awoke to the sound of the gunshot and cries of pain. Holland threw off his linen blanket and looked to find Renton shifting the bolt of his rifle, with the orange-haired girl on the ground clutching her arm in pain. The blonde girl was wavering, considering the choices of fighting or fleeing. As she did so, Eureka flung open the bedroom door and immediately joined Renton. Seeing she was outnumbered, the blonde girl turned and sprinted out the door.

Ignoring the frenetic calls from both Holland and Eureka, Renton started off in pursuit. He was not about to let his evidence, his reasons for being so paranoid in the first place, to get away. However the orange-haired girl tripped him and he fell on his face, accidentally firing a shot out the doorway.

"Holland! Eureka! Give me a hand!" Renton called frantically as he struggled to his feet.

Eureka helped up Renton with her strong hands, while Holland attempted to restrain the orange-haired intruder.

"Rentoshka, who are these people?!" Eureka asked worriedly, any color in her face long since drained.

"There's no time. I need to get them…!"

"I could use some help here, Eurekasha!" Holland beckoned, locked in a tussle with the intruder.

Renton ran out the door and shifted the bolt of his rifle again, skinning his eyes for any sign of the other home invader. Sure enough, he saw her running out from the behind the bushes and across the paved street. Her form was difficult to pin down as her cloak made for good concealment in the dark night. Peering down the sights, Renton tried to get a bead on her and stop her hasty retreat.

He fired, the voice of the rifle calling all others in this small sleepy town to wake. One after another, lights from the other houses switched on, illuminating the street. The cloaked girl managed to avoid a fatal shot as the bullet tore at her hood and landed further ahead of her in a kick of asphalt and dirt. He shifted the bolt again, but just before he could get off another shot, something smashed into him from behind.

The orange-haired girl had somehow managed to wrest herself from Holland and Eureka's grasp, and tackled him to the ground, firing another shot into the air. As she pulled at his oak brown hair, Holland and Eureka tried desperately to save their family friend and subdue this hostile intruder. The girl shouted all manners of profanities, some incoherent, as Renton struggled out from under her.

"GET OFF ME!"

Using his rifle as a club, Renton swung around as best he could on the ground, and hit the girl upside the head with the barrel. There was a soft _ding_ as the metal made contact with her cranium, and she was knocked out with a soft sigh. She rolled off him as Renton tried again to find the other intruder. However his hopes were to no avail. She had disappeared into the night and into darkness. She left, with only a sense of loss within him and the sounds of dogs barking, people murmuring, and the calm stillness of the night broken.

Holland picked up the body of the unconscious intruder, and dragged her inside while Eureka helped up Renton from off the stone steps. Understandably, Eureka was shaken and visibly surprised by the entire ordeal. This prompted a myriad of questions from her as Renton was escorted back into the house, the door shut behind them. Chief among them was:

"Rentoshka, are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

"I…I'm fine," Renton said unsteadily. "I'm just shook up from that is all."

Upon entering the living room, Renton found his William had woken up as well. Apparently he had been too late to the action, but he was still itching to know what had transpired in the past few minutes. Clearly, he was as confused and shaken by the event as Renton himself. It was obvious to all of them there was a lurking menace in this town. One that demanded the utmost attention, and the utmost caution. It was fear of that menace that motivated Renton's words to his brother.

"William, call up the militia. Tell them we have a situation."

"What about the girl? What if she comes to?"

"We just have to hold her until they get here. And if she comes to, we better hope she can tell us something."

William could only nod and head back to his room for the telephone, and look on as Renton assisted Holland in placing the intruder into the armchair on the far side of the living room. Eureka in the meantime found some medical supplies in a cupboard, and brought some gauze and bandages to contain the intruder's bleeding. If they were to comb any information from her, she had to remain alive.

As William left the trio to attend to their invader, he realized a fatal truth. There was something dark and sinister at work behind all of this. Renton had confided in him before all too many times about the sense of paranoia and fear he felt. He sensed someone might come looking for him and Eureka after returning from Stalingrad. Something much bigger than any of them had started. And all any of the four young people could do was hope that this would come under control quickly. Sadly, so often in life, things do not often proceed as one would hope.

* * *

**A/N:** As I said previously, expect chapter 13 to be heavy on action as well. Obviously the loss of an agent is not going to sit well with Chertov, so there will be a response. Their security and anonymity are at risk. Also Renton and his entourage may start to make moves of their own. What do I mean by that? Well, if you follow, review and favorite this story, you may find out, give or take a few weeks. Thanks again to everyone for waiting.


	13. Chapter 13

******A/N: F.I.N.A.L.L.Y! After a month spent slogging away at my internship, my contract expired as of yesterday. In the time between my last announcement and now, I've been methodically chipping away at this chapter and setting up the plot of others. Consider this compensation for your long wait and a thank your for your patience, your understanding, and your support. It's been really tough, but I managed to get through somehow. So from now on, I'm back on the regular schedule of writing and posting, unless I say otherwise. Rather appropriate too, as we're nearing the end of what I'd call the second act. After next chapter, we'll be entering the final third of the story. Read on, enjoy, and thank you to everyone who waited for this long.**

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**Chapter Thirteen**

**April 11****th****, 1943**

The abandoned apartment's corridors echoed with the booming, patronizing voice of their commanding officer. He paced up and down the small disheveled room that made for what he called their "headquarters," addressing all the agents that stood before him. There was one agent conspicuously absent, 909. She had been captured and turned over to the local militia. No doubt, she was already being interrogated as he spoke to them. The agents all had despondence and shame worn plainly on their faces, as this had been the second failure to destroy the American in a row. Chertov was well in his place to be furious. At least, that is what 340 told herself as he ranted on and on.

"That was an colossally stupid thing to do!" he spat in indignation. "Now that 909 is in the hands of the militia, it's only a matter of time before she gives us away. This will compromise the entire mission!"

Chertov's heavy steps shook the floor as he came to 340, staring squarely into her blue eyes with his scowling dark chocolate brown ones. 340 instantly felt like wheat cut down before the reaper's scythe as Chertov silently demanded an explanation for this atrocious failure. She hesitated, her eyes and lips trembling in fear of what he might say or do no matter what explanation she gave. This was a grave injustice not just to the mission and to her superior, but to her comrade-in-arms as well. She gulped a hard lump in her throat as she slowly formed a sentence.

"909 told me to go and leave her, sir."

"And you fucking did it?!" Chertov screamed, gripping on the blonde's collar out of frustration-induced impulse.

His dark chocolate brown orbs almost turned red with demonic rage.

"Are you not the ranking officer of the squad? Since when does a sergeant take orders from a fucking junior officer?!"

340 never felt so helpless and intimidated. Cold sweat was dripping from her forehead. His grip was so strong, she felt almost lifted up off the ground. Her frightened legs were on the verge of collapsing at any moment, as if he was about to drop her from a great height. There was a strong fire in her superior's eyes, and she feared she would be thrown into it. Who knew what this boy was capable of when given the opportunity to lash out.

"With all due respect, comrade Lieutenant," 340 shakily rebutted, terrified of the fury in Chertov's face, "the boy was armed. Even if I _did_ try to retreat with 909, he would have gotten both of us."

Chertov was silent, and his scowl only deepened. Perhaps the fact she had a point was what made his mood so foul, she thought as he turned away from her in a angry huff. As he walked down the line of agents again, 271 spoke up in defense of 340. That stopped him right in his tracks.

"I agree it is a very fragile situation, but 340 is right. If she tried to extricate 909 from the house, both of them would be captured, and we would be short two squad mates instead of one. That would make this predicament all the more dire."

Again, Chertov was silent, coming to terms with the fact that 271 and 340 were right in this case. Having one agent captured was better than two, but it still meant they were all at risk. Unless something was done quickly, the entire operation would likely fall apart. Chertov walked to the wall and rested his head against it, sighing tiredly. Why did revenge have to be so complicated? And why did it have to be so difficult?

"578."

The redheaded girl stepped forward, lacking in any of the fear or trepidation 340 had experienced in that moment.

"You know 909 personally, do you not?"

"I do, sir."

"How long do you think until she cracks?"

"It is impossible to tell, however it is vital we move quickly."

"I know that already. I don't need you telling me, 578…"

578 stepped back into line, noting that Chertov was done hearing platitudes and inanities of what must or must not be done. 340 took up on 578's sentiment, and offered a plan of action. In the end, this was her responsibility. The mess 909 was surely in now was her fault, and she would make this right.

"If I may, sir, we should get her back before she talks."

"Very original of you, 340," Chertov retorted sarcastically. "And how do you propose we go about that? Who's going to get her back from the militia? You?"

"Yes, sir," she said firmly. "I left her behind, so I will take full responsibility."

Chertov chuckled…somewhat threateningly. 340 felt regretful for even offering the idea of a rescue mission as her superior slinked up to her. His boots heralded a fate that seemed worse than death or discharge. To earn the ire of this young officer was to earn the wrath of Hell itself. His brown eyes flashed as the morning light shone through the windowpane, and she felt the Devil staring her down. His gaze burned through her civilian clothes, underneath her cloak and hood, and burrowed into her soul until she felt she would collapse on the spot. Yet she could not look away no matter how much she tried. She was not afraid but rapt.

He cracked a smile and he breathed on her lips,

"Your sense of duty to your comrades is admirable, 340. This matter will be left to you, then. I have only one warning to give you: do _not_ fail me again."

340 could only salute in response, fearing a simple "yes, sir" or "I'll try, sir" would not be sufficient even for him. Through it all, she still did not know, even at this stage, what they were doing here or why this boy had to suffer. She still understood nothing. All she understood was the need to save her comrade.

»»»»»

Denisov continued to tap his foot in sync with the clock on the wall, as Talho stood at attention awaiting orders, any orders at all. It had been 5 hours since the detachment on night watch brought the perpetrator back to the office. Since that time she had been held in the brig until the interrogation room had been made ready. He had been off-duty at the time, and Talho was at home on the other side of town, sound asleep and unknowing of what transpired in the wee hours of the night. There was a quiet excitement in her, as this had been the first major incident the militia had to deal with since her enlistment. Although she participated in nabbing a criminal or two, it was usually because of petty theft or drunk and disorderly conduct. An attempted assault coupled with breaking and entering was a step far beyond anything Talho had been accustomed to.

She hoped she might have a chance to see the prisoner face to face and actually take part in the interrogation, though if she knew Denisov well, she wouldn't get anywhere near the prisoner. She wouldn't even get to talk with her while her officer did all the talking. In fact, what would Denisov even ask? It's not like a criminal would have much reason to break and enter other than to steal something of value. And who would target Renton Thurston for the object of robbery and assault?

At that moment, Holland's words were recalled to her, as he shared his fears, his suspicions and his anxieties with her on that long walk together while on solitary patrol. Holland often told her about a boy who hated Renton with all of his being and would not rest until either he was dead or someone stopped him. Even though she put in an investigation order, nothing had come of it. What else could she expect? It was not likely that the militia would stick their nose into the business of a conspiracy based solely on the suspicions of a young boy, and one who had only recently been picked up off the streets. His fears could very well have been the ranting and raving of a madman.

Yet it was that same madman who treated her with respect and dignity, so lacking among her officers and other enlisted men. It was that same beggar who looked at her merely as another human rather than a lowly militia soldier, and one of the only female soldiers at that. It was that same scruffy vagabond who called her his friend, a title no one seemed interested in pursuing among her ranks. Seeing him again would be the balm soothing her frustration and mitigating the disappointment she would surely face before the day was over. She would have to call upon the Thurston residence when this matter was done and ask if Holland could meet her again.

At that moment, a knock came on the door.

"Enter," Denisov said, disinterestedly.

A corporal in his early twenties came in, and saluted Denisov.

"Lieutenant, the prisoner has been brought to the interrogation room. Everything is ready; they're waiting."

Denisov smiled expectedly and turned to Talho.

"Excellent. Private First Class, it is time."

Talho said nothing but only slung her rifle over her shoulder, following Denisov and the corporal out of the office and to the interrogation room. She was still expecting to be barred from seeing the prisoner.

The militia office, despite being modest in size, proved to have a variety of rooms of varying purposes. The major had his own private office tucked away in the back, which was only open in special extenuating circumstances. Various aides and lieutenants had their shared spaces to discuss the latest maneuvers, training, and incidents around town. However, far in the back part of the militia office was an interrogation room, used very rarely in the event of policemen being unable to detain extra criminals; in times of war, the police force was short on manpower and relied on local militias to assist in keeping order.

The interrogation room was small, little more than 10 by 15 feet. The ceiling was low, and there were no windows to the outside. Perhaps the feeling of complete isolation from the rest of the world was a method of subjugating the prisoner, forcing him or her to reveal what he knew, lest his or her eyes never again see the sights of trees and hear the joys of birds chirping.

Denisov opened the door to the room, a column of light shining its way to the wall. In the middle of the room was an oak table with a chair seated behind it. In the chair sat what Talho thought to be a teenage girl, no younger than she. The girl had an azure cloak draped over her shoulders, concealing what looked to be a white frilled blouse and matching pants. Her head was drooped down like the branches of a willow, showcasing her fiery orange hair in a double bun. She hardly seemed the character for attempted burglary.

Talho stepped to the right of a lamp hanging over the girl.

"Yukieva, hit the light. Corporal, you may leave us."

Talho turned on the lamp, timing it perfectly with the corporal shutting the door behind them. The lamp cast a ring of illumination around the prisoner, who refused to look up at her captors. Talho could hear the girl breathing through her teeth in frustration as Denisov turned his eyes to her. She could almost feel the heat from her breath as Denisov leaned over the table. He spoke, directing his words at her.

"Lift your head."

The girl said nothing, only breathing through her teeth. Frustration kept her silent.

"What's wrong? Don't want to look me in the face?"

She raised her head, her strange gold eyes staring at Denisov, as if her mere gaze was enough to strike him down dead. Denisov was undeterred, and about to begin the interrogation when the girl spoke up.

"Where am I? And who the hell are you?"

"That's not important," Denisov said. "What's important right now is who you are. Now, I'm going to ask you a bunch of questions and I'd like to have them answered immediately. Do you understand?"

The girl refused to answer. Her breathing was heavy and filled with more anger than before.

"I said do you understand?" Denisov repeated.

Again, no answer. Denisov turned to Talho and nodded. Talho only nudged the girl with the butt of her rifle in response.

"Just answer," Talho coaxed.

"Speak only when spoken to, Private First Class," Denisov snapped.

Talho instinctively shut up immediately, and Denisov continued with the interrogation. However, the girl's defiance portended what was to come for its entirety.

"What is your name?" Denisov asked.

"I have no name," the girl muttered angrily.

"Well, that's rather odd," Denisov laughed. "A human with no name? Did your parents forget to give you one when you were born?"

Yet again, the girl refused to speak. Her eyes contorted to a hard glare, determined to silently beat him into submission. However, Denisov was stronger than that. He was a grown adult, after all.

"What is your name?" he asked again.

"I can't give you my name," she grumbled. "Even if I did, it would mean nothing to you."

"Are you sure about that?"

Silence.

"I won't ask again: what is your name?"

"I SAID I CAN'T GIVE IT TO YOU!" the girl screamed, a frayed strand of her orange hair falling between her eyes.

"Then what _can_ you tell me about yourself?"

The girl again remained silent, looking more worn than before, but it was clear her stalling was working. Denisov removed his officer's cap and straightened out his hair before proceeding onward. Talho knew the interrogation could prove explosive, as Denisov was an officer notorious for his short temper. She gripped the stock of her rifle tight, tight enough to leave her fingers numb. Denisov was known to give her and many other soldiers a verbal lashing on patrol if they were to misspeak, but she shuddered to think what kind of punishment he would give this young girl.

"Come now, let's be sensible," he started again. "We have three witnesses, all of whom can put you at the scene of the crime. We found you detained by Thurston himself. You have no alibi, no excuse. Unless you want to make this harder on yourself, I suggest you start talking."

"And if I don't?"

"Yukieva…"

Talho nudged the girl in the shoulder with her rifle butt, more forcefully than before. The girl winced in pain as Denisov smirked, hoping his message was now clear.

"That is what awaits you. Now, again, your name."

"I can…only give you my code number."

"What is it?"

"909."

Denisov scribbled the number down in a notepad in front of him.

"Now, why would you have a code number? Are you a spy?"

"Maybe I am, maybe I am not."

"You're trying my patience, little girl," Denisov spluttered. "If you cooperate, this whole thing could go a lot smoother. Now why don't you tell me what you were doing at the Thurston residence?"

"Fuck you," she said abruptly.

"Thurston said there was another girl with you. Who is she and why did she leave you to be captured?"

"Zatknis'…"

"What were you two doing invading the Thurston residence in the middle of the night?"

"Umirai…1"

Talho looked back at the girl and then at Denisov. Things were definitely getting intense by each question and insult that ping ponged across the table. She could already sense an aura of impatience, agitation, and anger coming from her superior. It was only a matter of time before this interrogation turned ugly.

"Who else are you working with?" Denisov asked.

"Kiss my ass, you son of a bitch!" screamed 909.

Talho struck 909 on the back with her rifle butt, trying to coerce her and keeping this interrogation from spiraling out of control. She may have to stop Denisov if things got out of hand.

"Just talk to me," Denisov said, frustrated. "It's your only way out of this."

"Don't you morons get it?" 909 hissed rancorously. "If you really think your state-sponsored brutality can break me, you have no clue who you are dealing with."

909 breathed heavily, unflinchingly glaring at Denisov. She was not giving up easily.

"I have nothing to gain from talking to you."

"Think about what you have to lose."

Denisov turned to Talho and as she was about to give her a hard jab, 909 did something unexpected. Talho heard what sounded like hocking from the sinuses. Then a projectile flew across the room, landing right on Denisov's cheek as he turned it. Talho looked down at the prisoner and saw she had spittle hanging from her lips. She spat on her officer's face.

Talho could visibly see the silent wrath building up in Denisov, as he calmly wiped his face and cleaned his mustache with a white handkerchief. There was an errant twitch in his eyes, betraying the rage that was about to explode in the room. He was trying to maintain the facade that he was in control as he put his officer's cap back on. The facade had not only cracks in it, but outright gashes. She tightened her grip on her M1 Garand, knowing of what was about to come. In fact, it came almost immediately, but not as she expected it to.

909 leaped up and tried to grab Talho's rifle, wrestling with her for control of the firearm. Denisov immediately rushed over to her defense and pulled 909 away from her, only to receive a punch in the gut and then the eye, knocking him down as she again tried to wrest the rifle from Talho's hand. However, Talho swung her rifle like a cudgel and landed a blow on 909's head, throwing her off.

"CORPORAL!" Denisov called frantically. "GET IN HERE, QUICK!"

The door flung open, and in rushed the same corporal that had guided them both into the room. The corporal quickly subdued 909 with a clubbing of his pistol. 909 fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, and the corporal quickly slapped handcuffs on her before dragging her out of the room. Denisov spoke harshly.

"Put her back in her cell. She is obviously not going to cooperate. And don't let her get _anywhere_ near me again."

"Yes, sir."

Talho and Denisov were left alone, as he tended to his subordinate. She ran her hands over her body to make sure nothing was bruised or broken. There was only soreness and frustration to be felt.

"Did she hurt you?" Denisov asked.

"I don't think so," Talho replied. "Seems to me gleaning any information from her will be difficult."

"Don't remind me. We'll get nothing out of her at this rate."

Denisov opened the door and led Talho out of the interrogation room and back to his office, his anger evident with each hard step he took. His boots practically shook the floor with the force of an earthquake while he pondered and wondered what could be done regarding the prisoner. Evidently, nothing they had at their disposal here was going to work. The agent was a tough nut to crack.

As he came back into his office he immediately went to the phone and dialed the operator. Talho in the meantime was confounded with what could be done now. Unless they had a tougher interrogation, one where the prisoner could be readily controlled, the information they needed to continue with the investigation would be hard to come by.

"Sir, what do you propose we do?" Talho asked.

Denisov raised a hand, indicating for her to wait while he was on the phone.

"Operator, connect me to Battery Fremont, please…yes, I'll hold…"

"Lieutenant, who are you calling?"

"We might not have the means to extract any information here, but there is a detachment who can."

Talho tilted her head to one side in confusion.

"Sir?"

Denisov shushed her as someone evidently came on the line.

"Hello? Is this Captain Wallace of F Company?…Yes, 303rd Regiment…this is Lieutenant Denisov. Look here, there is a situation down here in Bellforest that we'd like your help on."

Talho leaned in to try and catch what this "Captain Wallace" was saying on the other end of the line. She could barely make out his voice as Denisov swatted her away.

"Yes, we found someone at the Thurston residence forcing an entry. We've been trying to get some information out of her, but unfortunately, no dice…I don't suppose you…you do? Excellent! When can we arrange a transfer?…Next week?…Perfect. I shall send a detachment over with the prisoner on the 18th, then…Thank you, sir. Goodbye."

Denisov laughed triumphantly as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. The stage was set.

"I assume everything worked out, sir?" Talho asked, though she knew full well the answer.

"Yes," Denisov smiled in response. "I knew Wallace wouldn't let me down. We shall have her over there in seven days' time."

Talho took a step back, visibly surprised. Surely it would give whoever the girl's accomplices were enough time to stage a retrieval. If 909 was lost, it meant they were back at square one, with nothing but suspicion and the report of a local hero to go on.

"Seven days? Lieutenant, wouldn't you say that that is a bit too long a wait for a prisoner transfer?"

"The Captain didn't offer any other time to take the prisoner. Until then, we keep her under lock and key."

"Yes, sir."

She knew better than to argue the point with him, as much as she disagreed with it. Denisov was surely on edge after receiving physical assault and spit from a prisoner. At the same time, she knew this was folly. It would be much better and safer to transfer her quickly and thereby act on the gathered information sooner. This was merely inviting aggression. If Holland asked why things would play out as she knew they would, she would only say to speak with her commander.

»»»»»

**April 18****th****, 1943**

Two red eyes peered at a Studebaker truck that sat idling in front of the militia office beneath a blue cloak and hood. For seven days, they waited for a development. For seven days, they were denied any such progression of events. However the arrival of a transport heralded something. The two red eyes narrowed when they saw three soldiers escorting someone out of the front door. They squinted hard, trying to see through the escort for the more important person: the prisoner.

She stuck out like a sore thumb with her cloak draped over her shoulders. Evidently, in only about a week, she had been spiritually shaken. A thatch of her orange hair hung between her eyes, her double bun fraught with strands and frays. Her golden brown eyes looked tired and weary, on the verge of surrender. It was clear that even if she had not given anything away yet, it was vital to get her back, lest the militia breathe down their necks. They already were.

The prisoner was loaded into the back of the truck, and the three guardsmen followed. With a revving of the engine, the truck drove away slowly, heading out into the wooded area to the west. the two eyes watched intently as it coasted further and further down the road, out of town. However, where that truck was going was anyone's guess. But the owner of the two red eyes had one reasonable lead. A feminine voice called on a communicator.

"Ageha Squad, this is 12. Truck has left the town and is heading west to Point 4-1-2. 909 is confirmed to be in the truck. Interrogative: any ideas where the truck is heading?"

"_This is 340. Most likely the truck is heading to Fort Fremont. It's the only major military installation in the area."_

"Understood. 578 and I won't get there in time, but you're close."

"_Very. 271 and I will head over there now."_

"Use caution. We don't know what quality of soldier we're up against with these militiamen."

"_Roger. We'll be careful."_

"And be quick, or else Chertov will have all our heads."

"_And nobody wants that."_

»»»»»

**Fort Fremont, California, USA**

To call Fort Fremont a major military installation was an overstatement. In truth, it was nothing more than an outpost. The garrison manning the fort was little over a hundred militiamen, armed with weapons many of their fathers had fought with. The fortifications themselves were leftovers from the Mexican War, built in the traditional Spanish Mission style, whose strategic usefulness had long past. Then again, it was not like there would be an Axis invasion. Nothing exciting ever happened here.

Fort Fremont resided in the Marin Headlands, overlooking the entrance to the bay and covered from view by the shade of tall, mighty redwood trees. Those same trees concealed three hooded figures conversing through their communicators beneath the thick trunks. 340, 271, and 578 were waiting intensely for the arrival of the truck carrying their youngest agent, 909. Tensions were running especially high, after the verbal whipping administrated by their commanding officer.

Of the three, 340 was the most determined to get her back. Responsibility for her capture weighed heavily on her conscience. If it hadn't been for her leaving, she would not have been handed over to the militia by the Thurston household. As if that were not enough, 340 still shivered in her boots frightfully at the thought of Chertov giving her punishment for failure. Fear was not always a healthy motivator. She refused to let her commanding officer invade her thoughts for this operation. Her blonde hair danced as she fervently shook her head; she needed to focus!

Minutes felt like hours as the three young ladies waited. Finally, 340 spotted a target in the distance along a curved road, piercing through the heavy woods. A Studebaker truck had pulled up and stopped to offload. From the back of the truck she could see three soldiers, no older than twenty, escorting 909 out of the truck. She had handcuffs on her, meaning she had no way of breaking free. They led her down the road and up to the fortress, where she would receive further interrogation.

She pressed on her neck and spoke softly.

"This is 340. I've spotted 909. She's under heavy guard."

"_We'll have to be careful then. Can't alert them to our presence,"_ 578 spoke up in response.

"_Heads up," _271 broke in. _"There's a provost detail outside the fort. I count 6 riflemen and one officer."_

"We can't let the escort get to the detail. There'll be too many witnesses. We'll have to do this quickly."

The three agents made their way towards the escort, using the bushes and underbrush to screen their movements. 340 hid behind the trunk of a tall redwood on the left side of the road, and checked her equipment, searching for something appropriate to use. In order for this to work, the retrieval had to be quick and clean. The least amount of evidence had to be left behind. On her utility belt, she found something that could be of good use.

It was a metal canister with a linchpin attached. When deployed, it could release an incredible flash that would deafen and blind anyone unfortunate to be caught in its midst. It was an experimental model, and had not yet been cleared for field use. 340 reasoned it would be some time before it would ever see use, maybe not even in her lifetime. Still, it was the perfect tool for what she had in mind.

340 looked across the road, and saw that 271 and 578 had taken positions on the right side. They seemed to know already what she had planned. Either they were psychic, or had good intuition. She prayed, to whatever God did exist in this world, that this would go off without a hitch. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay from Chertov.

The escort came closer and closer, holding 909 on a tight leash. She looked visibly tired and frustrated, with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was matted and unkempt, like she had just woken up from a long nap. It was obvious that if she went through another interrogation, she could break. They _had _to get her back.

As the escort reached a position perpendicular to hers, she pulled the pin off the canister and threw it towards the escort. Dark smoke came popping out of it as it hit the ground.

The soldiers stopped, wondering what had just landed in front of them. 340's muscles tensed, fearing the canister wouldn't explode and fizzle out instead. If that happened, the operation would surely get messy. They could _not_ leave any evidence behind!

A few seconds passed as one of the soldiers prodded the canister with his rifle. The minute metal touched metal, there was a loud explosion and a blinding flash of light, like a bright star. The noise was deafening, even for 340 and the others who turned away to avoid being flashed. In an instant, they were left with a ringing in their ears, but they could not stop now. The agents swooped in with great speed, and began their deadly work.

340, being a specialist in melee combat, produced two fighting knives from her utility belt and immediately struck at the soldier closest to her side of the road. The militiaman, blinded and disoriented, was unable to respond as 340 plunged her first knife into his back. He cried in agony as 340 swiftly cut across his throat with the second knife. The soldier fell to the ground and died with a sickening gurgle, blood seeping from his mouth. 271 made for 909, still shackled by her handcuffs and promptly moved her off the road and out of harm's way, tackling her into a nearby bush. That opened the road for 578 to make her attach from the right.

As the two other militiamen slowly regained their bearings and tried to face 340, 578 came in from behind. One militiaman leveled his M1 Garand at 340, and almost fired before 578 stabbed him in the back and snapped his neck in two. The last soldier, less adequately armed, made a charge at 578, bayonet glinting in the sunlight breaking through the thick canopies. 578 blocked his attack with her fighting knife, and 340 came at him from behind, stamping on his calf. The militiaman was sent to the ground, but before he could react, 340 stabbed him in the heart, muting his scream with her hand over his mouth.

The escort was destroyed, and 909 was secured. As they removed the bodies from the road to be hidden, 271 asked 909 what had become of her during this time. More to the point…

"Did you tell them anything?"

"N-nothing useful," she said shakily.

"What do you mean, 'nothing useful?'" 578 interjected as she disposed of a body into a patch of bushes. "Did you tell them who you work for? About any of us?"

"I told them…my code number."

578 struck a hard glare at the young agent, knowing that she had let something slip.

"Anything else?"

"Nothing else. Just that."

340, seeing 909 was telling the truth, caringly put a hand on her shoulder. She smiled, the way an older sister would to her kin.

"There's nothing wrong with that, 909. You did fine."

909 nodded firmly, as 271 hid the last body. Without another word, the agents made off into the woods, and left the scene with little to no trace of what had transpired. Just as 340 had hoped would happen. At least Chertov would not bite her head off, or give her a verbal whipping. However, as they followed the road that would lead them back into town, she feared that Chertov would send them off to again try to take the life of Renton Thurston. As much as she was bound to her officer, to her country, and to this mission, she felt there was something greatly amiss about this entire operation. She had to find out what this was truly for.

»»»»»

**April 24****th****, 1943**

Despite having been in America for more than a month, Holland still didn't feel like he belonged. He struggled in speaking English. His wounds were still healing, preventing him from pursuing work. School did not even concern him, as it didn't many other youths his age. In fact, he was surprised to know that Renton and Eureka still attended school when so many others dropped out for the war effort.

Most days were spent in wandering, becoming accustomed to the slower pace of life in a small town. Everything felt more relaxed and less hectic; in Stalingrad, every day was a major event, and the streets buzzed with activity. In Bellforest, things were quieter and stress-free. He noticed as he turned a corner on a cobblestone street there were few cars around. Back in the old city, the roads would be practically jammed with automobiles, buses and trolleys. Stalingrad once had tall skyscrapers, high-rise apartments, pristine, aesthetic office buildings, and ritzy department stores. In Bellforest, the highest building was never more than three stories, and most stores looked more like dollhouses than actual retailers. Still, he couldn't help but like this town. It _was_, after all, the home of his best friend and his sister's boyfriend.

Now that he thought about it, Holland had very few friends in this town outside of Renton and his family. It was difficult, since he could not speak the language, despite his best efforts to learn. Perhaps once enough time had passed and he was forced to speak it, he could make some friends. For now, the only other person in this town he could count on was Talho Yukieva.

Talho. The name still struck a favorable chord with him, his personal deliverer from a squalid life on the streets. Because of her, he didn't have to sleep on concrete. He didn't have to scrounge for spare change. He didn't have to settle for wearing rags and eating scraps. Holland owed the existence he lived now, the life he was trying to piece back together now, to her.

What could she be doing right now? Did she serve in the militia on weekends? Surely they would give her a day off, he thought as he wandered into a small park. It had been a while since they last saw each other. She was always being dragged on patrol by her lieutenant, and he'd be damned if he let a boy like Holland even get near her. Why was it that even after his allegations had been proven true, that he knew Renton Thurston, the militia treated him like a gadfly? It was a shame he didn't know her home address; perhaps her parents would be kinder than the smug officers and enlisted men. Then the thought occurred to Holland: he never asked Talho about her personal life.

Ever since he arrived in this country, his conversations with her had been driven by paranoia and fear of someone hunting him and his family. With an intruder caught, maybe this whole mess would resolve itself quietly. Maybe she would talk, and give the others away…give Chertov away. Then justice would finally be served, and they could move on with their lives. He could adjust without looking over his shoulder, live a life of peace.

As he contemplated all of these possibilities, his heavy steps on the cobblestone walkways in rhythm, Holland spotted someone he thought he recognized sitting on a wooden bench.

It was a young girl about his age, with shoulder-length black hair and hazel eyes. She wore a white blouse with puffy sleeves and a knee-length deep violet skirt. To complete the pattern, the girl wore a violet ribbon around her collar, tied in a neat bow. He didn't have to think long to know who it was, and why it sent him running over to her.

"Talho…!"

The girl looked to him and smiled in recognition, waving.

"Holland! It's been a while!"

He tried to catch his breath after running, which made Talho laugh effeminately. Holland had to loosen his trademark yellow scarf. Even though the weather had gotten hotter, he still refused to lose it.

"I almost didn't recognize you without your uniform," Holland said.

"The militia gives me weekends off," Talho explained. "One of the few perks they _do_ give me."

"I see. May I sit with you?"

"Of course. I was starting to get a little lonely."

Holland sat down beside her, and immediately was graced with a closer view of his only friend in this country. Talho, despite being about his age, had a mature body to be proud of. Her wardrobe only called that further to his attention. Compared to her field uniform, she looked pristine, from another world. The uniform, dark, drag and plain as he recalled, served to hide her more attractive qualities. Compared to the Talho in fatigues, high boots and with a rifle over her shoulder, the Talho sitting next to him now looked like a completely different person.

_I never knew how beautiful she was._

"H-how have you been?" he asked hesitatingly. "It's been a while since we saw each other."

"Alright, I suppose," she said, with a slight hint of sullenness. "Same stuff, different day, as the soldiers like to say."

Holland instinctively knew something was wrong. He could see the apprehension and depression in her. Talho's eyes gazed listlessly out into the open meadows in front of them, contemplating over something as if a terrible atrocity had occurred. Before he could press her on the matter, she came back at him with the same question.

"How about you? How has everything been since the intrusion last week?"

"Quiet. Too quiet, for my liking."

"How are Renton and your sister holding up?"

"Rentoshka is on edge again. Right now, he has people over the change the locks on the house. Eureka is out with a friend. Speaking of, has the intruder said anything to you lot?"

Talho visibly sunk, as if hiding something. She didn't have to say one thing; he automatically knew something wasn't right. He leaned over and spoke firmly, wishing to know what she was holding out on.

"Is there anything I should know, Talho? Did something happen?"

Her head dipped, her melancholy hazel eyes looking down at her white ballet flats. Indeed, something did happen, and none of it was particularly good. She sighed, and spoke candidly, not turning her eyes to him. As much as the news depressed her, Holland and the Thurston family needed to know.

"She wasn't cooperating. We couldn't get anything useful out of her."

"Is that all?"

"No," she said forlornly.

Talho laid back against the bench, now looking up to the sky. He could swear she was about to cry, her glistening.

"My CO put in a transfer to a local outpost. We hoped they would have better luck with her than us. But before she reached the post, the escort was attacked. The prisoner escaped."

Holland was immediately taken aback. He thought for sure the intruder would be safe under the guard of the militia. To escape so easily was inconceivable. Only through negligence or some otherworldly intervention did it even seem plausible to contemplate. Before Holland could get another word in, a small tear ran down Talho's cheek, hinting at persona affectation by this unexpected and unfortunate turn of events.

"Three soldiers are dead, Holland. I knew them all. What am I going to tell their families? I can't make any kind of promise to them! I can't tell them we'll find out who did this! We don't have a single lead as to who is behind all of this! We're back at square one!"

It was obvious to anyone that Talho was deeply affected by this, as more tears welled up in her eyes. She looked helpless and lost, with no clear way to a resolution of this crisis. Even though they had clear proof something nefarious was happening in this town, there was little evidence to act upon. Or so she thought, as she lowered her head, and a single tear fell on her violet skirt. Holland, however, knew better, and didn't have to wonder what he could do to help.

Without a moment's hesitation, he took her hand (which he noticed was remarkably soft), and said firmly,

"No, we're not."

She looked to Holland's strong blue eyes with a note of trepidation, her lips quivering.

"Because I know who helped that girl escape."

Talho's head tilted slightly to one side, in confusion.

"You…do?"

"Yes, or at least, I have a good idea who it is. And Renton does too."

"Then who was it, Holland?" Talho said in a sort of plea, leaning in closer to him. "Who helped her escape? Who killed those men?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, to mentally prepare an answer. In the darkness, he was greeted with a sight from his past, one he hoped he would never see again. He was plagued by the same face. Taunted by the same voice. Beleaguered by the same atrocities committed. The personage who hung like a specter over his memories and his current life only left him with a feeling of anger and betrayal. Holland squeezed her hand affectionately as he communicated his answer.

"It's the same person who tried to kill me in Stalingrad. He's the same one who hates Renton as much as we all love him."

Talho hesitated, as if the answer he gave was not completely satisfactory. True, that connection made Holland a high-value person of interest, with key insight into this case. But even with all of that said, she needed something more than a vague abstraction from the memories of this young expatriate.

"Do you have a name, Holland? I can't act on a description alone."

Now, Holland leaned back onto the bench, listening only to the sounds of tree branches rustled by the spring wind. He thought he heard birds chirping in the distance. How ironic that the birds would sing so happily in the face of such sad news.

"His name?"

Talho nodded.

"His name is Junior Lieutenant Ilya Pavlovich Chertov…and he is one backstabbing son of a bitch."

* * *

1 Die…(informal imperative)


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Note: I've enjoyed every minute of being free from the internship by writing. This entire weekend was spent by me in front of my computer, making up for lost time. So now, we have Chapter 14, which is probably in my opinion the most important chapter in the story. We'll be entering the third and final act after this. We have revelations, secrets revealed, and sparks flying between characters. Because so many important things happen here, we have a lot of content to cover so it will be the longest chapter in the story. If you want to read and understand this fully, I suggest you set aside some time where you can read without interruptions. I will try not to exceed the length of this chapter in the future. Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

**May 1st, 1943**

In the week since 909's rescue, Chertov issued a new order to lay low and wait. While the first failure only resulted in raising suspicions of Renton Thurston, this latest failure not only confirmed his fears but also aroused the suspicions of the local militia. It was a close-run thing to save 909 and prevent further critical information from falling into the wrong hands. Tensions were running high, as each waited in anxiety for what would come next. 340, however, felt not anxiety but confusion.

Chertov had been obstinate in giving any details about this mission. Ever since the beginning, he was tightlipped about why the American Russian had to die, what purpose it would serve other than providing a martyr for the people to rally behind. He refused to divulge to her, or anyone in Alpha Squad, why he took the mission with no hesitation, no second thoughts, and no consideration of what may become of the war effort by Renton's demise. 340 knew if she didn't ask now, in the moment of silence between attempts, she would never know, and would hate herself for it. She was determined to get an answer.

The abandoned apartment building that provided their headquarters had some small amenities for the squad. Each had a room one could claim for personal quarters. Surprisingly to 340, the building still had running water, which meant a clean, refreshing shower awaited each member after a long day of operations. The only thing lacking was heating, which meant the waters were always cold. Still, better cold water than none.

As 340 gently trotted down the narrow corridor, she ran into 271, the only agent she was close to in the squad. Her dark hair swished as she turned to her, a white smile on her face. So dissonant from the hard-fighting, deadly, and silent assassin that assisted her in 909's rescue merely a week prior. In any other place, in any other time, without that uniform, she would be good friends with her.

"340! Happy Workers' Day!" (A/N: May 1st is known as International Workers' Day, a celebration of the international labor movement. In the Soviet Union, it was an officially recognized holiday, often celebrated with elaborate parades in major cities.)

"Happy Workers' Day," 340 returned sullenly.

271 raised an eyebrow.

"Why so glum? We should enjoy this day, comrade."

"I would, but there is something I need to discuss with the Lieutenant. Do you know where he is?"

"He's in the studio room. What are you planning on discussing with him?"

340 looked around, to make sure no one could eavesdrop. Any of her words could be incriminating. She ushered 271 closer and whispered,

"I need to know why we're really here."

"What do you mean?"

"271," 340 asked sternly, "we've been ordered to kill a child, and we don't even know why. Doesn't that bother you?"

271 visibly shrank, obviously troubled by that question she dared not ask.

"Of course it does," she admitted. "But you know how the Lieutenant is. If I asked, he'd bite my head off."

"I'd have rather have a bitten head than not know why we're here. No one has said a damn thing! Not the Lieutenant Colonel, not Lieutenant Chertov, no one! I'm tired of the silence!"

271 said nothing and only blinked. She could understand 340's frustration, but unlike her, she lacked the will to ask her commander. Chertov had already established a reputation for being violent and irritable. One wrong word could prompt a cruel punishment. Most of the squad went along with his plans not out of loyalty, but out of fear. For her, it was enough to keep her silent. 271 could only feel admiration for her superior to so readily stand up to the powers that be.

She hesitantly pointed 340 in the direction of Chertov's personal quarters. Down the hall, and to the left. With one resolute step, she went off in search of her superior as 271 silently wished her the best.

340 hesitantly knocked on the door to the studio room, and was about to identify herself when a voice from within called.

"Enter."

340 quietly opened the door and found the young lieutenant seated at a desk, pouring over the case file of their target, the one reason they were all here. A photograph of Renton hung on the wall by a knife through his face, a lethal portent of the answer that awaited 340. Chertov was hunched over and deeply fixated on the case file, looking obsessed.

Chertov looked up, and the moment his decadent chocolate brown eyes met her light blue ones, he smiled contentedly. He seemed to be delighted to see her.

"Ah, 340! Come in, come in! I don't bite…"

She wondered if the last statement was actually true as she shut the door behind her and approached the desk. It felt like walking a thousand leagues, with each step being harder than the last.

"What can I do for you, 340?"

"Actually, comrade Lieutenant, I was wondering if you could answer some questions I had."

"Regarding what?"

"This mission."

The smile ran away from his face and was replaced with a look of inquiry.

"What about this mission has you vexed, 340?"

340 looked down at her shoes, somewhat hesitant to get to the actual question. Despite her desperation to know the truth, she still had the possibility of a verbal whipping from Chertov, or worse. She decided to approach the question indirectly.

"Come, now, 340," Chertov said impatiently. "I can't read your mind."

"W-when will we make our next move? The other squad members are rather antsy."

"Well, they better get used to doing nothing for a while. Thanks to the last failure, the entire militia is on high alert. Unless we all want to get caught in the act, we need to lay low."

At that thought, Chertov leaned over and looked again at the target case file. It held everything, even some information that none of the agents ever received. He smirked deviously as he tapped his finger on a line of print.

"But…we have one window of opportunity."

"When is that, sir?"

"Thurston' birthday. June 3rd. He'll be 17 this year."

"Are you proposing we attack then?"

"If we catch him on or near that day, it'll do tremendous damage to him mentally. Even if we don't catch him, the knowledge it will be his last birthday will leave him weak."

"So you mean—"

"Destroy him from within before dispatching him from without," Chertov said as he leaned back into the chair, smiling. "Call it what you will: Mind games. Demoralization. Psychological warfare. We weaken our prey so it cannot fight, making it easier to kill. Does that answer your question, 340?"

"Yes, sir, it does," 340 replied unaffectedly.

Her stomach turned at the very thought of this kind of torment, insidious and subtle. She had presided over interrogations of prisoners beforehand, but this was completely different. To destroy someone internally before killing him seemed torturous, like shooting a wounded animal. Nonetheless, she had to keep her head and not lose sight of the reason she came in to see him for.

"Is that all, 340?"

"No, sir. There is one other thing I wish to know."

Chertov folded his hands in his lap, and blinked. 340 inhaled deeply, bracing herself for what was sure to come after this inquiry.

"Sir," she asked, hesitantly, "I still don't know why we have to kill the boy."

The mood quickly soured as Chertov sat up, making sure he heard her correctly. Surely, he thought, this matter was settled.

"I am sure I told you and the others," he recounted, his voice threatening, "but that is not for you to know. All you need to know is he poses a threat."

"But why _does_ he pose a threat? If I may say so, comrade Lieutenant, he's just a child. What purpose would his death serve? We'd just make a martyr out of him. He hasn't harmed our cause in any way."

Her lieutenant's eyes narrowed, as he ushered her closer. She feared the worse as her step echoed in the studio room.

"I am not at liberty to discuss in full the reasons why he must die," he said in a tone of warning. "If you are really determined to get those answers, I suggest you talk with the Lieutenant Colonel upon returning home. I cannot provide you anything."

340 wanted to say more, but the glare in Chertov's brown eyes told her not to. She feared pressing the matter further would provoke an angered response. Still, she was not satisfied, and so chose a more subtle question.

"In that case, sir, may I at least know why you chose to lead this mission?"

Chertov raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Pardon?"

"The Lieutenant Colonel could have chosen anyone to lead the mission, but he chose you. Why?"

She thought for sure the lieutenant would lash out at her for asking something so personal, but he chuckled. He laughed for the first time in a long time. Seeing him laughing was like seeing a completely different person. Perhaps someone was masquerading as him and had stolen his uniform.

"While I cannot tell you the reasons the Lieutenant Colonel wants him dead, I _can_ tell you why I want him dead."

340 smiled inwardly in triumph. Finally, she would get some long overdue answers. Granted, they weren't exactly the answers she was hoping for, but it was better than walking blind. Chertov surprised her by standing up and walking over to the dinette of the studio room, and turning on the faucet. He then proceeded to fill his canteen with water as he continued to address her.

"This is going to take some time to explain, so you may want to take a seat."

She did not quarrel, and found a spare chair near the windowsill. She watched as the late morning light streamed into the room, casting a yellow glow on the back of her superior, distilling through his matted brown hair.

"The truth is, 340," he continued, shutting off the faucet, "that boy and I have a history."

The revelation hit her like a bomb. Chertov never spoke about his personal life, and he made no mention of even knowing the American Russian. This new development only raised further questions. If they knew each other, why did he take the mission that would ensure his death?

"A history, sir?" 340 repeated. "Are you saying you know the target?"

"For a long time…and he and I have a score to settle."

340 sat wide-eyed as Chertov came back to his chair, took a swig from his canteen, and began to tell her stories of the past. Stories from a city that had once been a beacon of the future for their great nation. Stories of a foreigner and his son travelling the world before it would fall to ashes. Stories of a bond forged between the foreigner's son and a family of high standing. Stories of a neighbor writhing in jealousy and anger at the spotlight being stolen from him.

»»»»»

**September 1st, 1938**

**Stalingrad, USSR**

The school year had started again for all of them, and the happy days of summer quickly disappeared. It felt like only yesterday when the entire city had welcomed the American and his father as if they were Soviets themselves. Chertov could only huff in anger at the thought of Renton Thurston as he turned a street corner, heading in the direction of the railway station. A cold autumn wind swept by him and sent a shiver down his spine.

He was dressed in his traditional school uniform, consisting of a black jacket and slacks over a bleached white shirt. Around his shirt collar he sported a red neck scarf, signifying he was with the Pioneers. In reality, he would be heading to the local assembly, but there was more pressing, personal business to attend to.

In the days since the American left, the aura of his neighborhood had soured. The Novikov children completely avoided him, even more than they did when the American was around. The other children grieved at his departure, as if they had all lost a close relative. What on earth were they so utterly sad about? People come and go from the city everyday; it was nothing unusual. It hardly warranted the mood of a funeral, especially from the Novikovs.

The Novikovs' daughter, Eureka, was particularly grief-stricken. Since the day Renton left Stalingrad, she made it a point to stop by the train station for a an hour or two each day, simply watching the trains go by, and waiting. Waiting for an arrival from Vladivostok. Waiting for a familiar voice to call her from the train. Waiting for a return that, in Chertov's mind, would never come. Eureka needed to move on. Two weeks had passed; the time for grieving was over.

It was more than that, however. He wanted her to forget. He wanted them all to forget. The sooner they did, the sooner things would go back to how they were. Ever since the American set foot in this city, all attention had been focused on him. The neighborhood children treated him like one of their own, inviting him in their games, taking him on tours of collective farms, even a weekend trip to Yalta. And Chertov subsequently faded into the background. It was outrageous, and unfair. Why was everyone so smitten with the boy whose nation was meant to be their sworn enemy? The bastion of the bourgeoisie that threatened to crush their Workers' Paradise? What about the American commanded such attention, while he garnered none?

(A/N: Yalta: A city in the Crimean Peninsula, in what is now Ukraine. During the 20th Century, it was the primary holiday resort of the Soviet Union. It received international attention in 1945 when the Yalta Conference between the Allied Powers was held there at the summer retreat of Livadia Palace.)

Chertov approached the station, and shuffled past a young man about his age, wearing a school uniform. He had a full head of tousled grey hair, looking as if a tornado had wreaked havoc upon his head. His strong blue eyes appeared distant, searching for something he could not grasp. His steps were heavy on the wooden ramp, reverberating with the force of an earthly tremor. The wind whipped at his face and threw his yellow neck scarf into a frenzy as he stepped onto the cold pavement. Chertov paused for a moment and looked back at the walking figure. He could have sworn that was…

"Holland…" he hissed, voice barely above a whisper.

The young man said nothing and only hurried on. Did he not hear him, or was he just ignoring him?

Chertov continued up the steps and onto the platform of the station, where he found the person he wanted to see sitting on a wooden bench, under the shade of the station's roof.

Eureka was dressed primly for the first day of school, clad in a black dress with a frilled white apron donned over it. She wore white bows in her dark brown hair, neatly combed back as if she was a secretary in an office. On her feet were black Mary-Jane style shoes complemented by knee-high white socks. Her gaze was away from him, staring down the railway tracks off into the distance. The direction was north and east, towards Siberia and Vladivostok. Beyond Vladivostok was the Pacific, and the country of the boy who was embedded in her mind. The boy he was determined to have her forget.

He approached her silently, and spoke.

"I knew I would find you here, Eureka."

She turned her head slowly, and found him. Her face was morose, downcast and dejected. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she just experienced the death of her parents. The disconsolate gaze in her grey eyes did not deter him.

"Oh, Ilya, it's you," she said morosely. "Shto tiy khochesh'?" (A/N: What do you want?)

"I want to know what brings you here every day. I want to know why you are stuck in the past."

"I would think you know, already."

Chertov was unsatisfied, and pressed further, taking a few steps closer to her.

"So are you just going to waste away your life here every single day, waiting for someone who'll never come?"

"Renton WILL come!" Eureka retorted, her voice seething. "He and I promised we'd meet each other again. He swore to me he wouldn't forget me."

"Talk is cheap, Eureka, and so are promises. Especially coming from the mouth of a bourgeois kulak."

"That is _all_ you see in him. To me, he was…more. So much more."

Eureka's eyes began to water and her heart began to break. Nonetheless, Chertov was relentless.

"Eureka Petrovna, that boy only stayed here for little over a month. What makes you think he's going to remember you, or any of us? He's a speck of dust! He's a feather, easily blown away by the wind! Why do you waste your time pining for that pipsqueak?"

"Because he was kinder to me and my family in one month than you have ever been in our entire lives. He was my greatest friend in this city. No, in this _world._"

Chertov choked at what he saw as her heart opened for the whole world to see. How could this girl be so faithful? How could girl be so certain he would return, when it was clear that any chance of this friendship lasting was close to nil?

"You're gagging me with your sentimentalism," he shot back coarsely. "I'm old enough to know friends and acquaintances come and go, like the seasons. If you're content to live in a fantasy, that is your own business. But I am here to tell you: one day, reality will smack you in the face. In a year or two, he will be forgotten in this city."

He stepped closer, now less than a foot away from her. As he knelt down to be at her level, his voice hissed with bellicosity.

"No one will remember him in that time. Not Petya. Not Natasha. Not your brothers."

He pointed an accusing finger at her, making his point crystal clear.

"Not even you."

At those three words, Eureka's brow furrowed deeply in anger. Her eyes still streaming tears, she grabbed Chertov by the neck scarf and stood up, shaking him violently. Never before had he seen her lose her temper. Always she was a calm, meek, and somewhat vulnerable girl. She exercised such control, commanded such power. It was frightening to see her so incensed about anything.

"I'LL REMEMBER HIM! I'LL ALWAYS REMEMBER HIM!" Eureka screeched, her voice cracking with sadness.

"You say that now," Chertov pressed callously, "but when you are older, you will know I'm right."

Eureka slapped him hard across the face, sending him careening to the wooden platform with a thud as she let all her grief flow, just as her tears hit the floorboards.

"And what would a egotistical thug like _you _know?! He was a better friend than _you_ have ever been to me! You don't care about anyone, as long you get something from them. Renton _never_ sought to gain _anything_ from being my friend!"

She cried uncontrollably as she choked out her testimony to the American's sincerity of friendship.

"He was kinder to me than anyone else in his time here. More than to my brothers…more than to the other children…maybe even more than to himself. And that kindness is something I know you cannot understand…and never _will_ understand!"

"What I understand, Eureka," Chertov hissed as he lay crumpled on the floor, "is that you're being childish."

"Don't you DARE talk down to me!" Eureka sobbed. "All you ever did was abuse and harass Renton! You treated him like dirt, and you call _me_ childish?! You're just angry because he stole attention away from you, like we all owe you something!"

Chertov struggled up onto his feet, and wiped his hand on his cheek. It felt blistered, as if she had slapped the skin right off it. Then as he swept past his mouth, he felt something warm, and sticky. Gently he dabbed his fingers in it and brought it to his eyes.

Red.

She drew blood from him. Chertov had so angered and provoked Eureka that she made him bleed. Now his eyes contorted into a stone cold glare at the girl before him, crying her eyes out. She struck a pathetic image, one that made him fume in rage. As she wiped away her tears, her grey eyes struck a dagger through his heart and he was powerless to stop her from delivering the conclusion of her sorrowful outburst.

"Well, I owe you nothing," she said, her voice shuddering. "You're just a bully, Ilya. A bully and a coward. I _won't_ give up Renton Thurston! I WON'T!"

At that, Eureka ran off bawling, a trail of melancholy following in her wake. And thus Chertov was left alone to contend with her soul laid bare for him to see. As he wiped away the blood from his lip, he could not dig out from him the deep, burning feeling of rage and jealousy. That boy clearly had made his impact on everyone, especially her. It would not be the simple passage of time that would wear away the bond they had forged in merely a month. Much more would have to be done to break it. Even then, it would be hard-going before things could return to as they were before the American came. Chertov huffed angrily as he made his way off the platform.

"So that's how it is, is it, Eureka?" he muttered angrily to himself. "You won't let go of Thurston? Fine. Then I will break him. And when he comes back…_if_ he comes back…I'll be waiting."

He clenched his fist as he came down the steps, and made off in the direction of the assembly hall. The Pioneers were waiting.

»»»»»

**May 1st, 1943**

**Bellforest, California, USA**

340 sat in silent shock after what felt like hours of a monologue from her superior. Countless stories filled with repressed anger, jealousy, and a desire for vengeance. Chertov's entire raison d'être for this mission was placed before her feet, and with it, his true nature. It wasn't just her commanding officer sitting in front of her, sipping his canteen as if he told her a simple childhood tale. He was a child in a uniform too big for him, seeking attention and recognition. A firebrand who simply wanted a thorn in his side removed and wiped from the face of the earth. 340 suppressed a desire to smack his mouth shut as he concluded the last of his tales.

"So, you see, 340, even if I could tell you the larger reasons why he must die, those aren't _my_ reasons. As long as that bourgeois brat lives, he perpetuates the lie he created the moment he set foot in my city all those years ago."

He set the canteen down on the table, and his tone grew more resentful.

"But I say, screw that. There is no way I will ever accept that boy living in this world, receiving that undeserved praise, and being placed on a fake pedestal, worshipped like a god! I will _never_ accept it!"

He closed statement with a bang of his canteen on the table. The force shook the floor beneath her as he eyed her expectedly, his brown orbs cutting through the afternoon light. As the bang's echo faded, 340 knew that this mission was more twisted and darker than she imagined. If she participated in the murder of a child to restore her officer's damaged pride, she would only share in his sin. If she were to be complicit in this assassination, she was doomed to the fate of a life with a heavy conscience.

"Now do you understand, 340?" Chertov asked.

"Yes, comrade Lieutenant," 340 replied. "I understand perfectly."

Chertov smiled.

"Good. Do you have any other questions or demurs?"

"Not at this time, sir."

"In that case, you are free to go."

340 nodded and left, but the mood had grown blacker, as if she was emerging from Hell, after speaking with the Devil himself. She could only ask herself, over and over: how did she get mixed up in such an underhanded, dark and reprehensible mission?

She failed to find any answer that would satisfy her as she made her way down the steps of the apartment building. The lieutenant's stories of vengeance and abuse reverberated in her head as she walked through the empty streets of the little town. Chertov's crooked grimace and dark glare haunted her every time she closed her eyes, even for a split second.

In the end, all she could do was wander aimlessly through the winding streets to remove the thoughts from her mind.

Eventually, she found herself in front of the Thurston residence. The very home of the boy who caused such ire from her superior. The fulcrum of this game of intrigue, assassination, and revenge. She wondered what could be done for him, his family, and the others who knew him and loved him. No matter what would come next, 340 swore to herself she would not be a willing participant in this vengeful act of murder. From now on, she had to obstruct and hamper this plan in any way possible. Even if it resulted in her death, it would be better to die with a free and clear conscience than to live forever in shame and disgrace.

Without a moment's hesitation and without an ounce of regret in her soul, she strode up the hill to the little bungalow, being careful not to slip on the stone steps. Even if he would never know her, or what she would do, it was better she did something for him than to be complicit in this assassination.

Once she was at the top of the hill, 340 searched her person to find something, anything, that could be of warning to him for what was to come. Then she felt something in her pocket.

A notepad. A pencil.

This would be enough, she thought.

She set pencil to paper and scribbled a note of caution, forewarning him of what was to come. Even though she could not divulge more, this was better than catching him on his birthday, defenseless and ripe for a kill. The message was simple, and clear.

_This will be your last birthday._

»»»»»

**June 2nd, 1943**

The message received on Renton's doorstep put him extremely on edge, along with everyone else. He was sure something was coming on his birthday. Whether it was an attack, a revealing of the perpetrators, or something else entirely, Renton was always on guard for something. To ensure absolute protection, he presented the note to the soldiers of the militia. In response, the militia doubled their patrols and night watches, skinning their eyes for any suspicious persons. However, Renton held a dire fear that the militia might not act until it was too late. He was grateful for the militia's protection. Any kind of help was better than none at all. But Renton could not bring himself to depend on anyone. All he knew was the fact that he and the others could not stay there. He didn't even feel secure in his own home.

They all decided it was better if they left the house and stayed at some other place, preferably with friends. William found a workmate to stay with in Marin City, while Holland chose to (again) be with Talho on her night watch at the militia office. Anemone had offered to take Eureka in at her place, which she accepted reluctantly; she was hoping to stay by Renton's side.

Renton himself planned to stay at a local hotel somewhere; he was far too paranoid to stay anywhere else. He feared wherever he went, danger would follow him like a shadow. During final examination week, as he explained his desperate situation to Jane, she offered him the chance to stay with her. It was clear to anyone who knew Renton this was adversely affecting him. He was increasingly twitchy, had developed bags under his dark green eyes, and often went whole days without saying a word to anyone. He had become restless and feverishly on edge.

Renton accepted her offer, on the condition he bring his weapons with him. There was always some chance that he would be found. Whether those predictions held any water, she could not tell, and she doubted if he could.

It was a mild, clear summer night with a new moon, providing no natural light, except the stars. It was under this shroud of darkness that Eureka approached the apartment complex that made for Anemone's home. After being ushered in by the gatekeeper and directed to Anemone's floor, she hesitantly knocked on the door.

"A-Anemone?" she asked, meekly. "Are you in?"

Her answer came the minute the door flung open. Eureka was greeted by the enthusiastic happy embrace of her fiery red-haired friend. Anemone Doolittle. The first friend she made in this country.

"Eureka, you're here! So glad you could make it! Please, come on in. Don't be shy."

"Thank you, Anemone. I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"No, not at all. Dominic and I were just about to have dinner."

When Eureka stepped inside Anemone's apartment, she was quite impressed with what her friend had to offer. It looked far different than her boyfriend's home. There were personal adornments of all kinds lining the walls. Photographs. Porcelain figurines. A vase with a bouquet of flowers. IT was like another world compared to the Renton's Spartan home. Eureka felt envious and somewhat embarrassed over the fact.

That didn't matter, however. Anemone was her friend, after all. There was no need to be jealous over domestic comparisons. Eureka had to relax for the night, and try not to fret. Still, she could not help but feel quite worried for her beau, Renton. Out of everyone involved in this tribulation, Renton was the edgiest about a possible third attempt on his life.

Eureka wished this troublesome ordeal would go away already. She wanted Renton to revert to the kind, thoughtful boy she met and fell in love with those five years ago. She missed the old Renton. Sadly, given the situation, seeing him return to his normal self would take time.

Anemone ushered her to an empty seat at the dinner table, with a full plate set in front of her. The dish was nothing special: vegetable soup with saltine crackers. Eureka humbly sat down and began to eat, just as Anemone saw good to strike up a conversation.

"Did you find the place okay, Eureka?" Anemone asked.

"Mhm, I did, though the darkness made it a bit difficult."

"That's good. How is everything on your end?"

Eureka looked down at her soup as she took another sip from her spoon. It was enough to communicate the troubles ongoing at the house. Anemone frowned in worry.

"That bad, huh? I'm really sorry, Eureka. But you shouldn't worry; you'll be safe here with us, won't she, Dom?"

Dominic, a 17-year-old boy jet black hair and gunmetal grey eyes smiled, and nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, don't you worry none. I'm sure Renton will be fine too."

"That's just what concerns me," Eureka explained. "I feel more worried for Renton than anyone else in this. This whole thing has changed him…badly."

"You know, I've noticed it too," Dominic noted. "He hasn't talked to anyone this week. Has he been the same way to you?"

Eureka nodded sadly. The mood soured, and Anemone nudged her boyfriend in the shoulder.

"Dom, don't spoil the evening!" she whispered. "She's gone through enough as it is."

"Oof…sorry, Anemone. I just can't help but feel for the guy."

Anemone turned her concerned amethyst eyes back to Eureka. Before she could say anything, she continued on about her domestic troubles. Clearly, the chain of events were negatively affecting their relationship.

"I just wish this would go away," Eureka lamented. "It's because of this that Rentoshka is acting this way now. He won't turn to anyone for help, not even to me. I know he's trying to be strong, but…"

"But you wish he would turn to you, right?" Anemone finished.

"Yes. Anemone…you don't think that…he doesn't—"

"Of course Renton loves you, Eureka! Everyone knows that!"

"Yep, he's real crazy about you," Dominic interjected. "Any time someone brings it up, he throws a fit."

They all laughed at that, and the aura of the apartment brightened.

"Dominic," Eureka asked innocently, "do you live with Anemone here?"

Dominic blushed at the question and almost choked on his soup.

"No, I don't," he explained, "I live in an adjoining flat. Though I'll tell ya, Anemone's parents think I might as well live here, as often as I visit."

Anemone giggled at that.

"Why do you want to know, Eureka?"

"Renton took me in because I had nowhere else to go, but I just wonder if that's normal for couples."

"Can't say it's too common. It'd raise a lot of eyebrows if we did. If we were older and married, then it'd be a different matter."

"Oh, but that's so far off," Eureka said, daunted by that prospect. "So many things could change between now and then."

"If I know Renton," Anemone said smiling kindly, "it's that you've made a big impact in his life. Something tells me that's not going to change…and neither will either of you."

"Do you really think so?"

"I know so, Eureka. Take it from me."

Dinner managed to pass quietly, with only idle chatter between them not noteworthy to be recorded. However, given the time Eureka arrived, they had to retire to bed early. Dominic left to return to his apartment and the two girls were left alone. As they prepared for bed, Eureka divulged more of her relationship troubles to Anemone, who listened as she brushed her long fiery hair in the mirror.

"Anemone," Eureka started as she fixed her nightgown, "ever since this whole mess started, Renton has been spending less time with me. Do you think there's a way I could change that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I guess I just want him to notice me more. You helped me before with getting new clothes, but I wonder…is there anything else I should change?"

Anemone turned to her friend, and immediately noticed something that had to be gotten rid of.

Despite her best efforts to school Eureka in ways of fashion, she clung stubbornly to some vestiges of her old life in Russia. One of them was her nightgown. At first glance, it appeared to be from another century, more fitting for display in a history museum than for actual use. The nightgown was white, with long frilled sleeves and a hem that reached down to her ankles. The collar was upright and stiff, trimmed with lace. Despite being only 15, Eureka looked like an old maid to her.

She sighed and shook her head in disapproval. Eureka raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"What's wrong?" Eureka asked.

"One thing you've got to lose is that nightgown. It looks like something my grandmother would wear!"

Eureka looked down at her sleepwear. It was the first and only nightgown she brought with her from Russia. She always thought it elegant and sufficient for sleeping in. Indeed, five years had passed and the gown hadn't shrunk at all. To lose a possession such as this would be to lose a part of herself. A part of her home, and her identity.

"Is it really so bad?" she asked, puzzled, fidgeting with the hem.

"Damn right, it is!" Anemone retorted. "No wonder your relationship with Renton is on the fritz. I told you this before, Eureka: guys love it when girls wear something sexy."

"So—"

"So you have to wear something more appealing! No, not just appealing; enticing!"

Eureka tilted her head in confusion, as Anemone seemed to be more enthused about the concept than she.

"Appealing…and enticing? Is it really that important?"

"Of course, it is! Here, let me show you…"

Eureka sat quietly on the bed as Anemone scrounged around in her closet for something to illustrate her point. Sure enough, she found a personal nightgown, and immediately showed it off. No, not a nightgown. More of a negligee. Just the mere sight of it made Eureka blush a vibrant red. To call it racy was being kind. It was crimson in color, much like Anemone's hair. The hem only reached down to just below the waist, and was open in the front, trimmed with lace and a white bow in the chest area. Eureka knew instantly what Anemone meant by enticing; something like this would make Renton faint.

"Do…you wear that often?" Eureka asked hesitantly.

"Not always. Just whenever Walt stays over on his days off from work."

"What does Dominic think of it?"

"He loves it!" Anemone replied jubilantly. "The first time I showed it off, he practically went red like a strawberry."

Suddenly, Eureka felt envious of her redheaded friend. Anemone was obviously much more comfortable in her own skin than she was. For most of her life, she dressed conservatively and old-fashioned, relying on hand-me-downs from within her family and her small circle of friends. As much as she wanted to be more "appealing," she balked at the idea of wearing such a revealing nightgown.

"I know you mean well, Anemone," Eureka said, disagreeing, "but I want to get Renton's attention, not get him arrested. I'm still 15. Renton will be 17 tomorrow."

Anemone had nearly forgotten about her friends' ages. Still, it didn't stop her from providing an alternative. Once again, she went into the closet, searching for something that might better suit Eureka. Once again, she found something that potentially would be suitable. This time, the nightgown was a baby blue, Eureka's color, and Renton's favorite. The hem was slightly longer, about mid-thigh, embroidered with frills. The gown had no sleeves, and was made of sheer silk. If Eureka looked more closely, it was somewhat see-through. The gown was not nearly as racy or provocative as the last one, but it was still showy compared to what Eureka wore.

"This should be alright, shouldn't it?" Anemone asked. "It's lightweight…perfect for the summer…and just enough to tease him. Renton will love this!"

"A-are you sure that will work?"

"Eureka, Renton is a man. Men are into this type of stuff! If you don't believe me, try it on yourself."

Eureka shifted her gaze back to her outdated nightgown. Compared to what Anemone had shown her, her old Russian nightwear seemed unworthy for a competition. Admittedly, there was some truth to Anemone's words. Because she changed her appearance, Renton looked at her more. She wondered if enhancing her attractiveness had a hand in his confession. She had already changed everything else in her wardrobe. It seemed only logical to give this fashion adjustment a chance. Nodding firmly, she took the nightgown from Anemone and immediately changed out of her archaic white dress.

The nightgown was soft to the touch, and fit snugly over her body. In contrast to her old nightdress, which draped itself like a curtain over her features, Anemone's nightgown seemed to shape itself to her body, accentuating every line and curve.

"Anemone…do you think I have the body for this?"

"Honey, absolutely, you do! This would be really good to give Renton as a birthday present tomorrow night."

"A birthday present?"

"Yeah, something to surprise him. I'm sure he'll love it."

Eureka smiled optimistically.

"I hope you're right. It just means this whole ordeal has to blow over first."

"That," Anemone added, "and you should watch out for strong lighting."

"What do you mean?"

"That nightgown is a bit see-through…"

Eureka looked in the mirror, and immediately saw what she meant. Her figure was silhouetted through the gown. She jumped away from the mirror with a small yelp of surprise, at which Anemone could not help but laugh.

"And that, Eureka, is why you have to wear underwear with a nightgown."

"I don't suppose you have any to spare?"

"Sure! I got a nice pair that'll match perfectly with it."

Eureka smiled as her friend searched through a chest of drawers for something that would give her a bit of decency. It was clear that she still had much to learn in ways of courtship. But she was willing to learn, if it meant getting her boyfriend back to the way he used to be, and having their relationship the way it was before these latest trials and tribulations.

»»»»»

On the other side of town, Renton lay alone on an Edwardian style couch. It was devilishly uncomfortable, and he was unable to sleep. Since dinner ended between Jane and him, he had been lying on his back, staring at the chandelier hanging silently from the ceiling. He was dressed in a simple white sleeveless shirt and boxers. His only company was the continuous _tick-tock, tick-tock_ of a Victorian clock hanging on the wall. That and utter darkness.

It was a moonless night, providing little natural illumination. The lack of a moon seemed to herald what he deeply feared was coming. One day to his birthday, and there was still no attempt on his life. The lack of any activity is what drove him more insane than the possibility of one. Waiting, agonizing, and losing sleep night after night in preparation for an attack that never came. Renton silently thanked God the school year would be over by Friday, and he could try to sleep soundly.

Then again, he didn't have any luck sleeping last night or the night before that. Any coherent thoughts that were in his head were sloppily cast aside by the fatigue. This state of mental siege had left him almost a nervous wreck. To add to the stress placed on him by the threat of assassination, he was staying in another girl's house. Renton began contemplating whether or not staying at another girl's place was either graceless or shameless. However, he had very few choices available; it was either accept Jane's offer, or pay an exorbitant rate for a hotel room.

Renton threw off his sheets in a frustrated groan. Maybe if he had something to drink it would get him to sleep faster. He leapt off the sofa and immediately stumbled towards the kitchen. Even before reaching the kitchen, he almost banged his foot on the butt of his M1903 Springfield rifle, resting against the sofa. As he grasped at the countertop of the kitchen, he tried to look for a glass in the dark. While his eyes grew adjusted to the darkness, Renton opened and closed one cupboard after another, searching for a glass.

At last he found a darkly-colored one, and grasped it by the lip. He turned on the faucet and ran the glass under the fountain of cold, fresh water. Renton needed something to get him off this edgy state. Otherwise, he'd die from exhaustion and stress rather than a bullet. As he let the water run down his throat, a familiar voice came from behind him.

"Renton?"

Renton jumped and almost dropped the glass. Looking behind him, he was relieved to find his friend, Jane. The British blonde was dressed in an elegant white nightgown with a plunging neckline and a hemline just reaching her thighs. On her feet were matching white slippers. Even in the darkness of the night, he could see just what a mature figure his friend had for a teenager.

"For God's sake, Jane," Renton rebuked quietly, "don't scare me like that."

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I heard the faucet running, and thought you had woken up."

"I didn't wake up," Renton explained. "I was already awake. Can't sleep worth a damn tonight."

Jane giggled knowingly.

"I told you that sofa was uncomfortable."

"Yeah, no kidding."

"So you have not slept at all tonight? That is not good for your health."

"No luck there. That sofa is murder on the back. Thought a glass of water would help me out."

"Perhaps with your thirst, but not with your sleep, Renton."

"I guess you're right."

At that moment, the clock on the wall struck ten. A full hour had passed since they had broken from dinner and went to retire for the night. Renton knew that he would not be able to survive the night without a good night's sleep.

"Jane, I don't suppose there's any other place for me to sleep in here?"

"Just my room…" she whispered sheepishly in response.

Renton sighed. He'd rather spend a sleepless night on the couch than impose on her. Especially when anyone could get the wrong idea from sharing the same bed with her.

"In that case, I'll try my best to manage. Sorry to wake you up."

"No, you mustn't!" Jane retorted. "Sleep is important, Renton!"

"Well, I can't exactly sleep in _your _room, Jane."

"It will only be for one night," she assured him, smiling innocently. "And what's a sleepover between friends, right?"

He blushed bright red at the prospect of sharing a bed with a girl other than Eureka. If word got out to anyone, he'd have hell to pay, and Eureka would surely never forgive him. At the same time, he _had _to try to sleep, lest he greet the next morning exhausted and vulnerable to attack.

"I-I don't want to impose on you…"

"You're not imposing," she whispered as she walked up closer to him. "I'm just offering you a good night's sleep."

The prospect of a sound, peaceful night was too tempting for him. He relented.

"All right, if you say so. Lead the way."

"Come with me," she responded taking his hand into hers. "Trust me when I say I don't bite."

As she led him through the sitting room up to the staircase, Renton immediately went back to the couch to grab his Springfield rifle. He would not go upstairs unarmed if worse came to worse. He would not afford being killed in his sleep.

"I'm not taking any chances."

"That's quite all right," she giggled. "I prefer being safe anyway."

With a small affectionate smile, she guided him up the staircase and into her bedroom. The first thing that struck Renton was how opulent and plush it was. Even her personal chambers radiated with elegance, as if from a different more respectable time. The queen-size bed had cream satin sheets draped over it with white pillows encased in polyester coverings. Each bedpost had a wooden adornment of a lion sitting proudly, that age-old symbol of the British Empire. Renton couldn't help but feel slightly intimidated as he sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

He buried his face in his hands, his breaths heavy as steel. Why did all of this have to happen? Why couldn't his enemies from the past just forget him? Why couldn't they just leave him and Eureka and the others alone? He never wanted any of this. He never sought all this attention; only a chance to live in peace.

Jane sat down beside him, noticing how his heart was troubled.

"Renton, is something wrong?"

"I didn't want this to happen…" Renton eked out.

"What?"

"Everything!" he cried in anguish. "I just want this whole thing to go away…all I want is to live a normal life…"

Jane's blue eyes widened as Renton sat up, and vented all of the pent up stress to her, his trusted confidante in this perilous time.

"Jane, do you know what it feels like to go through each day always looking over your shoulder? Have you ever wanted to forget something about your past…but it won't forget you?"

"I…can't say I have ever felt that way."

"It's a terrible feeling. Ever since I came home from Stalingrad…I swore…to Eureka and myself…that I would put that part of my life behind me. I would go back to being who I always have been. I tried hard to forget about my past there."

His piercing green eyes moistened, and Jane thought he was going to cry.

"One day, the nightmares stopped. I started to get better. I could go to school, hold steady work, and function like a normal human being. And then one night, just when I thought the worst was over, I spotted someone staring into my bedroom, watching me and Eureka."

Once again, he buried his face in his hands, and his voice began to break.

"So I spend the next couple months living in fear, looking behind me, and thinking someone was after me and Eureka. Then as if that weren't enough, two people break into my house and try to kill me. And now, I face the prospect of not even living to be 18!"

His psyche broke down, and tears flowed from his eyes.

"I don't want to die! I want to live…to see this war end…to go back to a normal life…to watch over Eureka. But…but…!"

His anguish-filled admissions stopped as he felt two gentle hands on his shoulders. He turned and found Jane was less than an eyelash's length away from him. Her ocean blue eyes stared deep into his dark green ones, entreating him to turn to her, confide in her, and depend on her.

"You poor, poor thing," she lamented.

Renton gasped, as if her words of sympathy stole his breath away.

"You don't have to hold anything back, Renton. Especially not from me. I'm here for you…always."

"Jane, I—"

Jane stopped him with a gentle kiss on the lips, one that was innocent and loving…at first.

"Don't say anything, darling. Just let me make it right."

He wanted to protest, but she refused to give him any such opportunity. She was determined to have her feelings be known to the young man in front of her. This time, nothing would stop her from being clear, and having what she sought for this whole time. She wasted no time in getting physical as she pressed her lips to his again. This time, however, the kiss was not slow as before. It felt much more forceful and passionate as their breaths became heavy and synched with each other. Renton, exhausted and frustrated from months spent in paranoia and fear, tried to resist at first.

However, Jane continued pressing herself against his body. Renton felt a dark wave of temptation sweep over him. As much as he knew this was wrong, how it was unfair and immoral, this sinful act eased him out of the anxiety and stress that had almost swallowed him whole. She pushed him down onto the bed and his head landed on a soft pillow. Jane pinned him down in an aggressive, feral manner as her legs straddled him. They paused for a moment, the only sound being their heavy breathing, and Renton took in the girl towering over him.

Renton never fully appreciated or realized just how beautiful Jane was. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and poured to the small of her back, like a large field of grain. Two blue eyes cut through the shadows, eying him seductively. Even in the dark of the night, Jane's impressive hourglass figure was apparent. Her bust was quite bountiful for a girl of almost 17, and her waist was narrow and trim. Jane was supported by two majestic legs like pillars supporting a pantheon that was her wide hips. Renton's eyes traveled further down, and were immediately caught by the hem of her gown, which was spread open with her legs. He blushed a shade of pink at the sight of her undergarments, which had lace trim.

After what felt like hours of them staring at each other, Jane immediately came down on Renton, and continued to kiss him thoroughly and passionately. She left no place untouched by her lips, travelling down his neck, over his shoulders, and even an innocent peck to his forehead. As her lips kept him occupied, her cold hands snaked underneath Renton's sleeveless shirt and whisked it off his body in one simple motion.

Renton was not one to brag or boast about his slim build. He had no definition whatsoever. Jane, however, made an exception by admiring his naked chest with her hungry kisses. He bit his upper lip, suppressing a groan of pleasure. Jane licked her lips seductively, as it was clear she was greatly enjoying this. The British blonde's hands crept lower and lower until they stopped at the waist of Renton's boxers.

Without an ounce of hesitation, the impulsive girl attempted to remove them slowly.

In that moment, Renton's senses were immediately recalled as he felt her cold hands on his center, and his dark green eyes snapped open. It was like awakening from a lucid dream, and finding himself in the cold stone reality of the present. He yanked at Jane by the wrists, and the whole scene stopped in an instant.

"Jane Hart!" Renton exclaimed in a mixture of anger and confusion, "what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

The seductive smile ran away from her face, and any color therein went with it as the mood in the bedroom had suddenly soured. Renton sat up and struggled with his sleeveless shirt to get it back on him. Jane was visibly crestfallen.

"This whole thing is wrong," Renton said quietly. "It's unfair."

"Unfair to who?"

"To Eureka."

Jane's brow furrowed in resentment at the mention of that name.

"Is that what this is about, Renton? Your friend?"

"She's more than just that, Jane. I love her. I love her more than anything."

She bit her lip at that fact, one she desperately wished was not the case. If only he never traveled to Russia, or met Eureka or anyone else in her family, then something was possible between them. Just his uttering of what she knew to be true was enough to incense her.

"And that means I'm nothing to you? Am I nothing more than just your friend? Your acquaintance?"

Renton looked at her in confusion and shock, never hearing or seeing this side of her before.

"Jane, what…"

"I have needs, too, Renton! It's possible for more than one girl to think about you! Did you ever consider how going to Russia, fighting in Stalingrad, and bringing back that girl would affect me? Affect us?!"

She was visibly upset by this turn of events. He knew that, as awful as it made him feel to see her in pain, he had to stand his ground. It wouldn't be right to turn his back on Eureka, on Holland, on everything he believed in and knew was right. He drew closer to her and tried to be as gentle as possible.

"Jane, you're a wonderful girl. You're a great friend, and you've always been there for me. I'm really grateful for everything you've done. But we're friends, and that's how it needs to stay."

"You say that, but did you ever ask me if I felt the same way about you?"

Jane looked to him with strong blue eyes, and inhaled deeply. She had to let him know now, or else she would regret it for the rest of her life.

"Renton, the truth is…I have always loved—"

_DING-DONG._

The tension was broken by the ringing of the doorbell, which made them both jump in surprise. Jane looked at an alarm clock on a bedside table, and saw the hour was late. 10:15, to be exact. Who in their right mind would be calling at this hour? Was there some special air raid drill? Or maybe the sound was an auditory hallucination?

"Who on earth could be out at this hour?" Jane asked to no one in particular.

"I know someone…" Renton replied, ominously.

Jane looked at him, and saw his eyes were wide and bloodshot, and he had…of all things…a crooked grin on his face. Then she heard him laugh. It was not the kind, cheerful laugh she was so accustomed to hearing. It was disturbing, fearful, and almost deranged. He looked to be a man who was just greeted by fate, and would go into the darkness laughing. The hour of his death had come. June 2nd, 1943. 10:15pm.

"They're here…they've come for me…"

He stood up and took two steps away from the bed, cursing at the air and launching accusations at the doorway.

"A bit early, aren't you?! My birthday's TOMORROW, you bastards!"

He laughed quietly again, and made for his Springfield rifle. Jane could only watch, dumbstruck with silence, as he loaded a clip of five rounds into the chamber, ranting softly to her with demented determination in his voice.

"Well, if I'm going to die, I'm not dying without a fight. I got a little birthday surprise for them: five .30-06 caliber rounds, straight through their heads!"

Renton turned to Jane, who was wide-eyed in astonishment at Renton's visible descent into madness. Was he like this in Stalingrad as well? How many Germans suffered by his hand while in such a unbalanced state of delirium?

"You got a flashlight?"

Jane tilted her head in confusion.

"A what?"

"A flashlight!" Renton repeated. "You know, you push a button and it shines light in the direction you're pointing it in?"

She processed the vague description and found a match in her memory. It wasn't by his terminology, but nonetheless a match.

"Oh, you mean a torch! I have one. One moment."

Renton waited anxiously as she searched her bedside table for one, and sure enough, found one in the bottom drawer. It was black in color with a metallic casing and button. One push and a single strong beam of light emitted from the black tube. Jane shined it towards the doorway and started to make off in that direction, but he stopped her. She could not look away from his piercing green eyes, but instead of being mad and unhinged, they were fraught with worry.

"Jane, I don't want you getting hurt. Stay right behind me. Understand?"

It was better to side with him, while their lives were in danger, than to call him out for what had just happened a few minutes prior. She nodded and fell in behind him. Before he made his trek down the stairs, however, Jane protectively wrapped one arm around his torso. She leaned on his back and pointed the flashlight towards the staircase.

"I'm not afraid when I'm with you, Renton. I trust you."

Renton said nothing, knowing this was not the time to sort out matters of the heart. He only nodded and made his way cautiously down the stairs. Each step reverberated throughout the house, as if he was a giant shaking the earth beneath him. As he slowly walked down, he once again took in the features of Jane. Her grip on his chest was strong but gentle, and her embrace was affectionate. So different from the cold, prying hands that were forcing themselves upon him not minutes before. Her chest, resting on his upper back, was equally soft, and radiated warmth. Renton could swear he detected the scent of her shampoo, which smelled faintly of tropical citrus.

True, she was beautiful, Renton thought to himself as he came onto the ground floor. But compared to Eureka, his precious jewel, Jane was a mere stone.

The duo crept with care through the sitting room and towards the front door, leading outside. The entire neighborhood was dark, and all the lights were out. No one knew what was about to transpire in this quiet Victorian house on this quiet lane in this quiet valley town. The door had a small peephole through which to view visitors on the doorstep. Renton peered through the hole while Jane swung her flashlight around to the kitchen, guarding his flank.

By this time, Renton had grown adjusted to the lack of illumination, and he had a clearer view out. There was not a soul on the doorstep, nor anywhere in the street. The entire block seemed like a ghost town with no lights and no sounds except for the chirping of summer crickets. Renton immediately knew something was amiss. They clearly heard the doorbell ring. It wasn't possible for it to ring by itself. Unless…

"More stupid mind games," Renton grumbled. "They're going to 'ding-dong-ditch' me…really scary, guys."

As they both turned to head back, they found a figure standing at the foot of the staircase. The figure was female, at least 18 years of age, wearing a military uniform underneath an azure cloak and hood. Renton recognized the figure instantly as one of the two intruders from before. The one he tried to capture but failed. The one who got away, and disappeared into the night. Jane let out a short shriek of terror, while Renton could only laugh and greet her sardonically.

"Hey there, buddy! How're you doing? So, you're here for my birthday, huh? Well, I got a little gift for you, right here!"

The rifle spoke with a crack as the muzzle flash lit up the room. While the bullet scored a direct hit in the chest, the intruder didn't fall. She didn't speak, groan or move at all. The only sound was an audible ping, like metal colliding with metal. Renton, undeterred and now out of his head, shifted the bolt and fired again. The next round landed on the stomach, but again, there was no reaction from the intruder. She only stood there, staring long and ominously, almost regretfully, at the frightened young people. Was she a statue?

There was a moment of silence. What on earth could they do now? Was this girl immortal? Did she have a shield that they couldn't see? The girl did not give them a moment to think of what could aid her against such lethal projectiles.

The girl drew a semiautomatic pistol and fired three shots. With the reports of each blast, Renton and Jane fled for the door. One pistol cartridge clipped off a lock of Jane's hair, which made her scream in fear while another scraped Renton's neck, staining his chest and left shoulder with blood.. There was nothing they could do now except escape. Jane unlocked the door and sprinted out from the house, with Renton following close behind her. As they left the girl lumbered to the door with the sound of metal clanking beneath her uniform. She never realized how heavy the bulletproof vest was.

Pressing on her neck, she screamed through the communicator:

"Alpha Squad, this is 340! The target is mobile. Repeat: target is mobile."

"_We'll catch him, 340! Anything we should watch for?"_

"The target is armed with a rifle; approach with caution. Also, watch your fire: he has an unidentified female with him."

Outside, Renton and Jane dashed through the streets of the residential section, searching for a place to hide, a place for refuge, anything. There was only darkness, slowly being broken by the switching of lights in select houses, houses the duo made note to avoid. While they feared their lives, they also feared an innocent bystander would get the wrong idea of them together…out in the night…indecently exposed. All the while Renton kept tabs on the rear, making sure no one was following them, while trying to stem the flow of blood from the wound on his neck. Despite Jane's many protests for them to stop, for her to examine his neck, Renton pressed on, determined to warn Eureka and the others.

Bellforest was no longer safe. That much he knew. He had to leave town, go somewhere far away. He had to hide long enough for these cloak-and-dagger ne'er-do-wells to be caught and brought to justice. Staying here one more day, one more minute, only meant certain death. How was it that despite everything done to restrict them, whether through capture, interrogation, or simple reports, they always found a way? Why is it the ghosts from his past would not rest in peace? Why couldn't people just leave him and the others alone?


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: Here we are with another update! Consider this a gift for Memorial Day weekend! There isn't much in the way of action here, except for a lot of running. lol This is just sort of a stopgap before we get into the meat of the third arc. Call it setting the stage, if you will. For the record, we're in the final act of the story here. How many more chapters before this ends? I can't say with certainty, as I am still planning out what happens. I have the ending in my head; it's just a matter of getting there. Expect a change in scenery and in focus next chapter though, as Chertov, his agents, and the militia will be at the center of attention. Without further ado, read on and be sure to review!**

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**Chapter Fifteen**

**June 2nd, 1943**

It was a moonless night. The entire town was quiet except for the monotonous chirping of crickets. The entire town was blanketed in darkness, except for the solitary searchlights on the top of the militia office. Ostensibly it was for the possibility of an air raid, but Talho knew as well as anyone else that the probability of that was close to zero. The Japanese were being pushed back in the Pacific, and could not have the range to launch such an attack. Neither could the Germans, nor the Italians. Still the regimen was kept if only to remind the people of the war that still waged.

Night watch was perhaps Talho's least favorite job. With the exception of those who manned the searchlights, she was always completely alone. Even Denisov balked at the idea of a sleepless night. Naturally, he would put Talho in his place if he was called upon to preside over the scheduled night. Such routine always reinforced the fact Talho had few, if any, friends in the militia who could stand with her on watch. No friends in the militia, maybe. But outside? That was a different matter.

Holland had offered to stay with her on watch through the night the day before. Talho thought he was crazy. Who in their right mind would stay up the entire night with only darkness and silence for company? Coming from the Soviet Union, spending weeks living on the streets settling for scraps, it might be something he was accustomed to. What pain did he endure coming to this country, alone, without a friend to look out for him? In that respect, she fulfilled a duty no one did. Likewise, he showed her respect that no one else did.

Always she was taunted, jeered and looked down upon in the militia. She was given the most menial of work, trivial tasks to keep her busy. She didn't know why they did it. Maybe it was the fact she was female. Or could it be she was young? Or perhaps the fact she was here by virtue of her family drew their ire. Regardless of the justification (or lack thereof), she was seen as the busgirl. She had no one she could reliably turn to in her regiment. Denisov was a stuck-up, snobby bastard and Major Volkov never had time for lowly enlisted men. She had no friends…except Holland.

Holland treated her like any other. He did not care about her family, her past, or her status. He judged her based on her deeds, based on her saving him from a fetid life. In that sense, even though he was just a stranger in a strange land, he was her greatest friend.

As Talho thought of him, she sighed, wondering when he would get here. It was already a quarter to ten, and surely he didn't want to be wandering about in the dark. At that moment, she heard footsteps, coming from an avenue to her left. She turned and looked to spot anyone, or anything. She could only see darkness and hear footsteps, drawing closer and closer. Slowly, a silhouette appeared in the distance. It was a male, about her height and about her age, maybe slightly older. Was it an agent, an accomplice of 909 that tried to intrude the Thurston home?

She instinctively swung up her M1 Garand and sighted it at the approaching figure.

"Halt!" she commanded. "Who goes there?"

The figure laughed in a familiar tone.

"Take it easy, Talho Igorevna," he said. "It's just me."

The first thing that came out of the shadows was a yellow scarf, wrapped in an ascot-like fashion around the figure's neck. It was followed by a grey jacket over a white shirt, tucked into black trousers and boots. The figure's face was a familiar one, and one that made Talho smile.

"Holland! You kept me waiting, you know. It's crazy boring on night watch."

"Sorry; it took a bit of time to find the place."

"It can't be so difficult for a city boy like you."

"I didn't have to navigate the streets in the dark."

Holland took a seat on the front steps, and Talho followed in kind. Both stared out into the dark lonely streets, with only the sound of crickets and the song of a nightingale to keep them company.

"How have you been, lately?" Holland asked.

Talho shrugged.

"I've been better. The three recent deaths still have me in some shock. I never thought that it could happen here."

"I've been there before, Talho. Many times."

She looked to him in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"Did I ever tell you about what my life was like in Stalingrad during the battle?"

"I can't imagine what it must have been like. What happened to you when the Germans came?"

"While I was trying to lead Eureka and Mikhail to safety, I picked up a gun and joined the nearest firefight."

"You fought with the Red Army?"

"Not with the army, no," Holland corrected, shaking his head. "I joined a band of partisans. We worked with the army and operated behind enemy lines. We cut communications, launched surprise attacks, that sort of thing."

"…then you've killed before," Talho said expectedly.

Holland nodded reluctantly, as if in refusal to acknowledge that brutal fact. Yes, he killed Germans. How many? That was an impossible question to answer. Was it justified? He didn't know. He simply defended his home against those who sought to conquer it. Protecting what one held dear was about the only thing worth fighting for in this world gone to Hell and bathed in its flames. He made that much clear as he spoke to her, with foreboding intent.

"Talho, you seem like a decent sort, but with all that said, the less you know of what I did as a partisan, the better. It's not exactly something I'd put on a résumé…"

An awkward silence possessed them both, as Holland diffidently inched closer to Talho, clutching her rifle stock. He feared the atmosphere had darkened and he needed to rectify his mistake. He was here to make Talho feel comfortable, not miserable.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to spoil the mood."

"You didn't," she quietly rebuffed. "Only I want to know something, Holland. If this war hadn't come, and life went on as usual for you, what do you think you would have been?"

Holland smiled ruefully, in remembrance of his family. They were once held in respect and honor, but became tainted by defeat and misfortune. The Novikov family was shattered, their home was a pile of rubble, and the chance for any of them to be reunited was slim to none. Truthfully, Holland had tried so hard to forget what tragedy had driven him and his sister here in the first place. Their home had turned on them, and treated them as they would an invading fascist German. There was no family left. Only fragments he could gather from the broken frame.

"Had war not come, I might have been many things. Father wanted me to serve in the Red Army, like he did. Eureka thought I should work to become a factory manager. She said I was good at leading people. Renton, on the other hand…"

He looked up to the night sky, in reminiscence of a childhood memory from years gone by.

"Renton said that is for me to decide, and no one else. He said I am in charge of my own destiny. No Party leader, no scout master, and no officer could tell me what to do with my life. No one ever gave me a choice before. I'm still getting used to that. In the end, I don't really know what I want to be when I'm older. What I know I do want, however, is a life of peace."

"I think that's what we all want right now. The question is how do we get there."

"Far too true."

Holland turned to Talho, who to his embarrassment, had her hazel eyes perfectly focused on his sky blue ones. To listen so intently must require a great deal of patience. He posed to her a similar question.

"And you, Talho? Why are you in the militia? If war hadn't come, what kind of life would you lead?"

Talho sighed dejectedly, hinting at the personal internal struggles she faced regularly as a part of her work routine. At least Holland was familiar with how it felt to be dictated to, and never given a choice in a matter. His country was dictation incarnate; saying nothing but what the Communists wanted him to say, seeing nothing but what the Communists wanted him to see, and doing nothing but what the Communists wanted him to do. She noted mentally how their mutual enemy shared the same qualities of those who ran the country she hailed from not long ago. What good was this Grand Alliance, if one party was only in it for convenience and not for the higher ideal?

"Honestly, Holland," Talho started, "I don't know. I'm a lot like you in that regard; no one ever asked me what I wanted to do with my life. My parents just thought this was a good way to learn about discipline and hard work. I'm in this uniform because they wanted me to get out of the house."

Talho scooted closer to Holland, catching him off-guard. He didn't want to ruin the atmosphere, so he said nothing, and let her continue. She surprised him by gently leaning on his shoulder.

"If there was no war, and if I could work my will, I'd go to school like Renton and the other children. I'd have a normal job somewhere. Other than that, however, I don't know. Like you, no one ever gave me a choice."

She looked at him earnestly, with entreating hazel eyes.

"But if the others in this regiment would just let me prove myself, I'd gladly stay like this. I _want_ to fight for my country. I _want_ to prove that women are capable of military service. I _want_ to show my parents that I'm capable of being independent."

Holland almost blushed at Talho's confidence and sheer will. Never had he ever known a girl his age who had such strong convictions, and the determination to match. Not even Eureka, his beloved sister, could outshine Talho's resolve. Though he never saw her in combat, her strong voice and earnest desires made it clear she was a force to be reckoned with, and willing to accomplish anything. She was eager to prove she was more than just a busgirl. She wanted to be a full-fledged soldier. A protector, a warrior, a keeper of the peace. In that moment, Holland felt something turn in his body, as if something otherworldly had touched his very soul.

"Talho," he said softly, "you've proven yourself already to me. I am sure you can to others."

"Holland…?"

"But," he added, "you shouldn't push yourself to your limits. I…want us to see the end of this war together. I want to learn everything there is about you."

Holland brought his face to Talho's.

"I want to fight beside you. Maybe even share my new life with you."

Talho was made speechless by Holland's sincere admission, as she wasn't expecting such words. Perhaps…he had the same feeling as her? Was it even possible to entertain affection for a young street rat who had come to America not three months ago? Just then, Talho observed Holland's features more closely. He had a rugged face, more suited to a man in his twenties rather than the young teen in front of her. There was a slight stubble under his chin. His grey hair swirled around on his head like a powerful squall, and his sharp sky blue eyes were almost as piercing as Renton's.

All this time, Talho had dealt with men who were high and mighty. Men with short tempers and vulgar personalities to match. Men who were skeptical that a woman could make a difference in her life by enlisting. Yet Holland was the exception. He cared for her. He liked her simply because she was herself. That was all the more reason why Talho felt an impenetrable sanctuary whenever she was with this boy.

Talho closed her hazel eyes slowly, waiting in anticipation. Holland did the same, and their lips slowly closed the gap between them. They felt each other's warmth, took in each other's scent, and contemplated each other's breathing. This was the connection of a lifetime if they succeeded here and now.

Just then, as their lips were about to touch, a loud shot rang out from across town, startling them both. Talho jumped to her feet, looking off in the direction of the residential section, away from downtown.

"What the hell…?" Talho whispered, dumbfounded by the sound of gunfire.

"That sounded like it wasn't far off," Holland stated.

Another loud shot echoed through the night, breaking the stillness. Something was amiss, and both of them had a good idea of what it was.

Renton.

"We have to go. Right now!" Talho exclaimed as she and Holland leapt from the bench.

They made a mad dash towards the sound of the shots, sprinting faster than marathon runners in the Olympics. It was still too dark for either of them to see where the shots came from. They quickly arrived in the residential section when they both heard three more shots, fired in quick succession. Both looked in the direction of a street lane, where a row of houses sat in quiet repose. The shots sounded close by, as one house after another lit up like a Christmas tree.

In the shadows, more than two lanes over, a pair of figures ran across the road, heading towards the apartments on the other side of the residential section. One of them appeared to be carrying a rifle, and leading the other by the hand. Because their faces were obscured, Talho could not discern if these were the attackers or the attacked. Either way, she was not going to let these two get away.

She swung up her M1 Garand and sighted it at the one carrying the rifle.

"Halt!" she commanded.

The two figures stopped dead in their tracks, and the one carrying the firearm raised his hands in surrender. Slowly, he emerged from the shadows and revealed himself to be a victim, not an aggressor.

It was a young boy, not older than 17, looking affright as if Death Himself had cast his eyes upon him. His oak brown hair was unkempt and frazzled, evidence of a surprise attack. His piercing green eyes had the look of astonishment and shock, as if he had witnessed a brutal murder. Dressed only in a sleeveless shirt and striped boxers, he was a figure better placed on some distant battlefield in Europe rather than in the tranquil streets of Bellforest. Blood caked the left side of his neck, his shoulder, and his chest. He was not a young boy but a cracked soldier, fleeing the greatest terror in existence.

"Thurston?"

"Yukieva?"

Renton staggered forward and almost fell to the ground. Holland rushed out and caught him, heard his labored breaths, and felt the warm blood from his wound. He was amazed his friend had even managed to walk this far.

"Rentoshka, what's happened?"

"The bastards are here again. They're right behind us…"

"Do you mean the intruders?" Talho asked.

Renton nodded warily and struggled to his feet, using his rifle as a crutch.

"They attacked us again. I have to warn Eureka…"

He started to go, but Holland tried to stop him.

"You're wounded! You need to rest!"

"We can't stay here!" he cried in delusion as he stumbled back into the shadows. "It's not safe!"

He left his friend and the militia soldier in bewilderment, but the second figure came forward and offered a brief, harried explanation. It was a teenage girl with blonde hair and blue eyes, dressed only in a white nightie and matching slippers. She had a mature figure, but a frightened disposition.

"An intruder broke into the house," the girl explained in a royal British accent. "She fired at us and we ran."

"Did you get a good look at the intruder?" Talho pressed.

The girl hesitated, her memory obviously fuzzy. It was understandable, since traumatic, violent events tended to be hard to remember immediately.

"It all happened so fast…I only got one look at her before we ran."

"Miss," Talho said sternly, shouldering her rifle, "It's very important that you tell me as much as you can about the attacker. It'll help us catch them later on."

The blonde nodded and silently searched through her memory, piecing together the various fragments of her appearance. It was slow and meticulous, but a picture began to form.

"It was a girl…very young, about Renton's age. She had short blonde hair, and wore an army uniform under a blue cloak and hood. That's all I can remember."

Talho committed it to memory, and Holland told the girl to keep following Renton and make sure he got to Eureka safe. And while she was at it, make sure he didn't lose too much blood.

While the two Russians made off in search of attackers, assassins, and prowlers, the British girl caught up to Renton, who was visibly struggling with his wounds and whose strength was flagging. After what felt like hours of running, searching, and looking over their shoulders, the two teenagers happened upon an apartment complex. Jane wondered what significance it had, but Renton knew more than she did. He explained the situation to the gatekeeper, and was allowed to pass. Jane, on the other hand, was kept inside the guard's hut, as she was only brought along by Renton and had no business there. Secretly, she wished she could go on with him, bring the revelation to Eureka, and perhaps even force a decision from Renton. She wished for a chance to be with him…and to tell him everything in her heart.

While his eyes constantly darted around to make sure no one was following them, and while he tried to control the bleeding from his neck, she could only feel a deep sense of resentment. There was only one name to whom she could apply blame.

Eureka.

Just the name made her seethe in anger. Damn that childhood friend of his for making things difficult! Damn her for stealing her happiness and spoiling any possible opportunities she had with Renton! What did that Russian girl achieved that she did not? If she was never in the picture from the very beginning, Jane probably would've had a smoother, less complicated life with Renton.

»»»»»

Despite it being only half-past ten, Renton felt like it was midnight when he reached Anemone Doolittle's apartment. His legs were weak, and he felt about ready to collapse as he pounded on the door, begging to be let in.

"Eureka! Anemone!" the boy shouted. "Are you awake? It's me, Renton! Let me in, will you?!"

The incessant banging woke up Eureka, who got out of bed. It didn't take long for her to recognize the frantic voice and rush for the door. She opened it, fearing the worst, and was greeted by the sight of her boyfriend, clad only in his nightwear, grasping his rifle in one hand and a wound on his neck with the other. The young boy barely even had the strength to smile upon seeing her, and instead collapsed on to the carpeted floor with a heavy, exhausted sigh.

"Rentoshka!" Eureka gasped in shock. "My God, what happened to you?!"

Renton said nothing, answering only in disconcerting wheezes as his vision began to fade and his consciousness with it. Anemone, also awakened from a tranquil sleep by the commotion, ran over to her two friends. Any color in her face drained in astonishment at the sight of her best friend's significant other, battered and bleeding onto the carpet.

"Renton? Is that you?! What the hell happened? Who did this to you?!"

"He's bleeding, Anemone!" Eureka shrieked in fear. "We have to do something, quick! Before he passes out!"

Without another word, Anemone rushed to the walk-in kitchen of her apartment and searched the cupboards and cabinets for something, anything to help stem the hemorrhaging and save their friend's life. Luckily for her, there was a first aid kit under the sink, and it still had everything in it one could need in a medical emergency. She quickly returned to the boy and produced a packet of sulfa powder, sprinkling it on the open wound to prevent infection. The girls heard a small wince from Renton when the powder made contact, though both knew it was a good sign; pain meant the medicine was working. Once that was done, Anemone wrapped a strong bandage around his neck to dress wound and prevent further bleeding. However, both of them feared how much blood had been lost already.

After what felt like hours, Renton regained consciousness, sitting in a comfy loveseat in the middle of the apartment. Eureka was sitting beside him, and, he reasoned, had been the whole time. How like her. Loyal and devoted to the very end. It was just one of the many things he loved about her.

"Rentoshka," she choked out, on the verge of tears, "are you all right?"

Renton turned to her in a daze, his piercing green eyes focused on her caring snow grey ones.

"Eu…re…ka…sha?" he answered weakly.

He could only muster the strength to gently stroke his love's flowing dark hair to comfort her. It was pillow soft to the touch. Pristine like a finely-knit crochet. Ironic that he was comforting her, being in a position of utmost weakness and feeling on the verge of death. The girl hugged him tightly, struggling to hold back her tears.

"Thank God! Thank God, I was so worried!"

Anemone, who had been sitting on the sofa, was relieved to see her friend slowly recovering. But she needed to know why he was here in the middle of the night, and so grievously wounded.

"Renton," she asked slowly, "how did you get like that? Did something happen?"

Eureka looked at Anemone and then to her love, her eyes quivering with anxiety and wide with disbelief. She had a good idea of what this was about, as much as she feared it wasn't the case. Hesitantly, fearfully, she asked Renton what she hoped wasn't true.

"Renton…don't tell me that…?"

"The bastards are here again," Renton whispered angrily. "they've come back."

With those three words, the atmosphere darkened. That made for a third assassination attempt, one that came closer to succeeding than the previous ones. A shiver went up Eureka's spine at the realization of just how close his life came to being snuffed out. Before, she had her skepticism about just how genuine his fears were, feeling they were truly safe at last. If there was any doubt left in her mind about the sources of Renton's paranoia, it was dispelled in that one instant.

Anemone, however, was not clued in to everything that had transpired thus far, and raised an eyebrow. Now she was getting worried that something larger than a mere home invasion was at work here.

"What do you mean, 'they've come back?' What's going on here?"

Renton divulged everything there was to know about his situation to her, and what had transpired earlier to Eureka. However, he was careful with his words and took note to leave out certain parts of the narrative. He stayed in a spare room offered by Jane, and just as he was about to fall asleep, the doorbell rang. By some black magic, the assassin invaded the home. Renton rescued Jane from her room and fled the house together. It obviously wasn't the _full_ story, but he was too exhausted, too shocked, and too overwhelmed with everything to tell the whole truth.

One other thing Renton declined to mention was about staying in Jane's _room_ of all places. Jane's attempted sexual advances had to be kept under wraps as well, at least for the time being. This was a matter of life and death, and not a time to deal with romantic entanglements. Renton was a man of devotion and not a shameless deviant from some Turkish harem tale.

After a full hour of storytelling, Eureka was as fraught with worry as he was by the beginning of this episode of paranoia and murder.

"Oh, Renton," she lamented, "what are we going to do?"

"Whoever these people are, they're relentless. They won't stop until I'm dead, and I won't have it. We can't afford to risk the safety of our friends here, either."

Eureka looked to him in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"I really hate to say this, but…"

He glanced at Anemone, and then back to his lover with serious eyes.

"…we can't stay in Bellforest anymore."

While the decision hit both of them like a bombshell, it was the best option available to them. Clearly, this town wasn't safe. Bellforest, the perfect home that Renton and Eureka had lived in, was no more than a dangerous place. To acknowledge the need to leave was painful enough, more so than the act itself. It was the very place where two lovers vowed to start their lives anew together. To part with this place was not a task taken on lightly.

It was with that thought in mind that all slept with heavy consciences, and with uncertainty of what would happen tomorrow. Eureka found trouble getting to sleep right from the start, and dangerously slipped into the same terrible state Renton was in now. The feeling she dreaded in Stalingrad, when the siege was in full swing, had returned. The feeling of hopelessness, despair, and dread of death. Just as before, in the most unlikely of places, her life as well as his was in danger. Death could come swiftly and without warning.

"Anemone," she tearfully confided as she lay awake in bed, "I don't know what to do. I've never felt so afraid in my life."

Anemone turned over and saw her staring at the ceiling, fearful.

"Eureka…"

"I came to America because I wanted a new life…I wanted to start over with Renton. But now, I fear I may not get that chance. Not when we have these assassins breathing down our neck. What if something happens to Renton? To think he would die…I just can't…!"

She tossed onto her side, entreating to her redheaded friend for help, feeling lost and at the end of her rope once again. Anemone rested a gentle hand on her shoulder and her head against hers as she whispered advice with the voice of a sage.

"You have to be there for him."

Eureka said nothing but only tried to fight through her tears.

"Being in love means supporting who you love. When he feels hopeless, give him hope. When he feels lost, give him direction. When he falls, give him the strength to get up again. He needs you now more than ever, Eureka. If you really love him, you have to make it known."

"What should I do?"

Anemone thought about it for a moment, and then had a perfect idea.

"Tomorrow is his birthday, right?"

"Yes. He'll be 17."

"A good place to start would be to give him the best breakfast he's ever had!"

Eureka, whose spirits were at an absolute low, was puzzled by Anemone's strange advice.

"You _do_ know how to cook, don't you?"

"I do…" Eureka admitted sheepishly. "I just haven't done it in a while. When Renton first came to Stalingrad, I used to cook for him all the time!"

"That's perfect, Eureka! One thing I know is men love a good cook."

"They do?" Eureka's grey eyes lit up at that prospect.

"Absolutely. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, after all."

Both of the girls giggled at that. Eureka was relieved at this change of counsel from her best friend. She thought for sure Anemone would give her another fashion tip. As much as her previous guidance had helped her in the past, the crisis they faced wouldn't be solved merely by enticement and flirtation.

"I'll tell you what, Eureka. Why don't you and I wake up early, and we can prepare something special, just for him?"

The Russian smiled and nodded, like an puppy eager to please its master. They talked on into the night, figuring out what to prepare and how and the importance of breakfast in bed to making a strong bond. As much as the days ahead seemed daunting to her, as much as the prospect of leaving this peaceful town disheartened her, the thought of easing her lover's burden with a full meal and a full heart was enough to ease her into sleep. The first truly peaceful sleep she had in a long time.

»»»»»

**June 3rd, 1943**

It was his 17th birthday. It was meant to be a day of celebration, although after the harrowing experience of last night, she doubted he would want to even venture outside. Who could blame him?

Eureka woke up early, earlier than she usually did, leaving Anemone behind to sleep. She was actually amazed at how early she could get up if she set her mind to it. The clock next to her bed said it was nine o'clock. Well, she thought, love can make you do anything. Not waiting on Anemone to wake up and direct her, she immediately made her way into the kitchen, passing by Renton sprawled out on the sofa, sleeping soundly and silently.

Thankfully, the boy was able to get some much overdue slumber. He was still a bit tense, but it not as severe as before. That much was evident by the calm look on his face as his chest rose and fell with each successive breath. She smiled at seeing him so tranquil, and imagined how happy he would be as she set to work preparing breakfast.

Eureka, being the only daughter of her family, was trained in all things her mother was expected to do, cooking being one of them. Many a day when Renton first traveled to her city, she would often fix resident dishes and traditional cuisine. He loved Russian food, so she always made something for him. Whether it was borscht, pelmeny, shashlyk, or even simple porridge with milk, Renton made a point to eat everything on his plate. After every meal, he would always give her a favorable review not just of the meal, but of her skill in preparing it as well.

(A/N: Shashlyk: A form of shish kebab popular in Russia, Eastern Europe, and the former Soviet Union. Meat for shashlyk is usually marinated overnight in vinegar, dry wine or sour fruit or vegetable juice with the addition of herbs and spices.)

After about half an hour, Renton awoke to the alluring aroma of Eureka's cooking. He showed up in the kitchen and was truly impressed with what Eureka had to offer to him. There was eggs, bacon, sausages, blini and some orange juice waiting for him at the dinner table. It was a meal fit for royalty, meticulously crafted to perfection.

"Good morning, birthday boy!" Eureka greeted with a smile.

Renton, even after such a traumatic night, when he feared he may die at any moment, smiled right back at the girl he cherished so dearly in this world. He almost felt undeserving of such a sweet, loving, and devoted soul as her. Before sitting down to eat, he walked over to her, and gently whispered in her ear,

"Good morning, my sweet Eureka."

He kissed her lovingly on the cheek, to which she giggled in response. The sound was so soothing and left him wanting more. His lips moved downwards and landed on her neck, which elicited a soft moan. Before he could continue, however, Eureka stopped him with a soft finger to his lips.

"Rentoshka, you should eat first. Your breakfast will get cold."

"Well, now, I can't let your food go to waste…"

The two sat down at the table, and after a brief prayer, began eating. Almost immediately after the first bite, Renton felt rejuvenated. Eureka hadn't lost one ounce of her culinary skill from back then. She looked eagerly at Renton, awaiting his reaction to her.

"Do you like it?"

"It's delicious, Eureka," Renton replied, smiling at his favorite chef. "You've always been great at delivering the best dishes. Not only that, but you improved the setting arrangements."

Eureka grinned at the comment.

"Thank you. I have my mother to thank for that. She was my inspiration, and…I've always wanted to try out every recipe she had in her cook books."

"It's just as good as then," Renton said as he sipped some orange juice.

"I could teach you," she said softly, fiddling with a piece of sausage. "That is…if you'd like."

Renton blushed. He could swear he heard a seductive tone in her voice as she tended to her plate. It was something new from her, but he was nonetheless intrigued.

"I'd love to learn."

There was a brief moment of silence as both of them continued with their breakfast. Renton was particularly ravenous in finishing his meal; after a night like that, a full hearty meal was welcomed by him. Eureka could only smile as she watched his food disappear piece by piece, but something was amiss, niggling in the back of her head. With a third assassination narrowly averted, it was clear they couldn't stay in town. They had to leave, but to where?

"Renton," Eureka asked her beau, "where are we going to after this?"

"As far away from Chertov's assassins as possible," Renton replied with a sneer in his voice.

He knew Eureka was just asking her, but the very thought of his nemesis and whatever hooligans he had attempting to kill him brought up feelings of umbrage.

"But where would we go to, exactly? We can't just blindly relocate to any place, you know. And besides, how long should we stay out of here?"

"I have an idea of where to go. It's about four hours away from here."

"Where?"

"Sacramento, the state capital."

Eureka tilted her head to one side.

"Sacramento? That seems a bit far, doesn't it?"

"If it's far enough to get away from Chertov, I'm happy," Renton chuckled as he took a bite of bacon. "And I found a good hotel in the newspaper a few weeks ago. Called the Cypress, if I remember right. They got positive reviews, and have good security, too. If we go there, we might be able to shake off these assassins somehow."

"How long will we stay there, Rentoshka?"

"I can't really answer that. As long as we're safe, I don't care how long we have to stay hidden. All of this cloak-and-dagger business has to end."

He set down his fork and knife and looked up at the young girl. The only real love he had in his life.

"I just want to go back to a normal life again…to watch over you…and grow old with you."

"I want that as well, Renton," Eureka replied softly, "but it won't be easy."

"I know that."

"But I want you to know that I'm willing to do what's necessary to stay alive. And…"

She reached over the table and took his hand in hers, entreating him to confide in her and find comfort with her.

"…I want you to rely on me a little more, Rentoshka. I'm here for you, even in the darkest of times."

"I just don't want to burden you with what I've been—"

"You're not and never have been a burden to me, darling!" Eureka admonished, her eyes begging him to turn to her for guidance. "I love you. I've always loved you, and all I want is for you to trust me."

"Eureka…"

"Let me be the place in your heart to go to," she pleaded quietly. "I swear I will never turn you away, no matter what you're feeling."

In an instant, Renton felt the need to release everything he felt in these past months to her. The stress, the exhaustion, the fear, and the sense of hopelessness that were eating away at him. He felt the need to convey to her what truly happened that night, and relieve himself of this feeling of unworthiness of even being in her presence. However, he tempered himself, and reasoned there would be another time, a better time. One where he didn't have Chertov breathing down his neck. One where their lives would not be in danger. If only they were in the hotel room right now, far away from all of this, he would tell her everything.

"I trust you more than anyone in this world," he admitted. "I promise I'll tell you everything from now on. I just didn't want you to go into that dark place, not so soon after you came out of it."

"Renton, we agreed to share our lives and forge a new existence for ourselves. That means we share everything we feel and think. No secrets between us, understand?"

He nodded, knowing she was right. Being in love meant being honest. Being in love also meant being faithful. Before this was over, he had to tell her everything. Waiting and holding it back would only make things complicated. At least if they were far away, and no one else was threatened, he would have the opportunity to mend the warped relationship between them. He would not lose her. Not so soon after getting her back.

After finishing breakfast, the pair started to pack. Renton realized he left his suitcase of clothes and toiletries at Jane's house, but he was loath to the idea of going over there again. He could not risk her spilling the beans of what truly happened that night. They would have to go back to their place before finding something suitable to wear before making preparations to leave town. Until then, he'd have to wear a blanket over him. Inconvenient, certainly, but it was necessary. It would take some time, but the faster they were out of here, the better.

As they started to leave, Anemone stopped her friend, giving her a mysterious bag.

"Eureka, wait! Don't forget this. Renton's birthday…_surprise_."

Eureka took the bag and looked inside at its contents. She'd be a fool if she had forgotten such a thing.

"Thanks, Anemone," she said kindly as she gave her friend a warm hug.

"Don't thank me. Just promise me you'll be alright. And be sure to call me when you get to Sacramento!"

"I promise I will."

With that, she waved goodbye before catching up to Renton, carrying his rifle underneath his blanket. To leave town seemed like sacrilegious to even contemplate, but both he and she knew they had no choice. Things had gotten out of hand. Until Chertov was caught, and these assassinations were stopped in their tracks, they could not afford another close call like that. Next time, it might not be as close, if at all.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Here we are with some more action and a change of scenery. Expect to see Sacramento next time, and we catch up with Chertov and his agents. If you squint hard enough, you'll be able to spot a cameo of two Eureka Seven characters! Also a brief notice: I'm taking a trip to Seattle in a week, so the next chapter will be delayed. Other than that, enjoy and review, as always.**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

**June 2****nd****, 1943**

Holland and Talho were quick to sprint down the lane where Renton and Jane had come from, and while the entire neighborhood was lit up at the sound of the gunfire, there was no sign of the agent. As they skinned their eyes for any suspicious person, there was a sense of anxious anticipation and tense apprehension. Holland had concerns they were the only ones out here looking for the ne'er-do-wells.

"Tell me you're not the only one on night watch," he panted, trying to keep up with her.

"No, there are others on patrol," Talho assured him, cocking her rifle. "They're just spread out in different areas. No doubt, they're on their way here."

"I sure hope so…"

At that, both stopped for a moment to catch their breath. They were in the middle of the street, lights flanking and casting shadows on both of them. Talho handed Holland a sidearm from her holster. It was a semiautomatic pistol with a leather grip and a silvery luster to it. Her hazel eyes cut through the darkness with expectation as she asked him,

"Can you use it?"

Holland took the pistol and cocked the hammer, as if it was mere child's play.

"You're talking to a former partisan, Talho."

Talho smiled.

"Now, we'll see how partisans fight."

They were about to start off again when they heard a strange sound. It wasn't from very far off, and sounded like metal clanking against metal. It was a good thing so many people had turned on their lights, as Talho almost immediately spotted a suspicious silhouette emerging from a two story Victorian house. The door to the house was already opened and all the windows were dark. Upon closer examination, the figure had a cloak and hood draped over it as it exited the house and made its way further into the residential section. Feeling something was amiss, Talho instinctively grabbed a flashlight hanging from her belt and shined it at the figure.

The cloak was azure in color, and hid what appeared to be a girl in a military uniform. She had a young face, possibly in her late teens or early twenties. Her hair was blonde and her eyes sky blue, much like the young girl clad in only in a nightie who gave her testimony only minutes before. At first, Talho thought it was another militia soldier.

"Hey, you!" she called out. "What's happened over there?"

The girl fled instantly, and Talho immediately recognized the situation; she had caught the intruder leaving the scene of the crime. She immediately pelted after her with Holland in tow, waiting for the moment to fire his pistol. He did just that, but what happened was completely unexpected.

Without much effort, he fired three .45 caliber rounds at the intruder's back. They clearly struck her, as evidenced by the three perforations in her cloak. However, the shots had no effect on the intruder. She didn't scream in pain. She didn't collapse to the pavement. She only continued running. Holland was left dumbfounded. Those shots should have killed her!

"What in the hell…?!" Holland said in astonishment.

"Is she wearing a bullet-proof vest?"

Talho took her turn at the target and aimed her Garand. This time, she chose to aim at a place where such bullet-proof aid would not come into play. She fired two shots at the intruder's leg, successfully. With a groan of pain and two flashes of red, the girl slowed her retreat. Now was the time to capture her and possibly put an end to this madness. They approached the cloaked assassin cautiously, as they had no idea what to expect from this girl. Holland, eager to end this ordeal once and for all, stepped closer to the girl.

Suddenly, the azure cloak swished to the right as the girl slid her booted foot under Holland's, sending him to the ground on his back with a groan. Immediately, the girl leapt forward and attacked Talho with a high kick from her wounded leg, attempting to knock her weapon out of her hands. However, the militia solder dodged the attack and made two jabs at her opponent, aiming for the blonde's cheek and upper chin with her bayonet. The intruder produced a combat knife and blocked each attempt to wound her before counterattacking.

Before she could attempt a jab of her own, she was kneed in the stomach by Talho, who was visibly exhausted from sprinting across town. Her strength flagging, she attempted to keep the initiative with a thrust of her bayoneted rifle, but stumbled on a loose stone. An opening appeared and the blonde seized it, making for Talho's chest with her knife. Talho sidestepped just in time for the blade to miss its mark, instead puncturing her in her left leg.

The pain was excruciating, as Talho felt her flesh tear from the force of the girl's blade. It was amplified further when the knife was swiftly removed as she fell to the ground. The open wound began to hemorrhage and a large red blotch stained the left leg of her military trousers.

Holland struggled to his feet and stood over Talho, protecting the girl he cared for so much. The blonde was clearly agitated, thinking this fight should be over. In the distance, she heard the heavy clopping of feet, rushing towards their position. She looked down the street, and saw the silhouettes of several men armed with rifles and submachine guns sprinting to the street corner. She counted at least ten soldiers. This fight had to end here and now.

The Russian boy produced his .45 caliber pistol and aimed it at the girl, while darting his eyes to Talho to make sure she didn't lose too much blood. The cloaked intruder lunged at him, aiming her dagger at his heart. Holland pushed away her arm, attempting to club her with his pistol. The girl jumped back and attempted to kick him, but Holland grabbed her leg and landed a hard punch to her stomach followed by a swift kick to the face. She felt the brutal payback brawling with Talho, and heard the myriad footsteps coming closer. There was no way she could win this fight without risking capture.

She would not become a prisoner. Chertov was the real criminal in this story. She had played the unknowing pawn in his quest for vengeance, like the rest of her comrades. There would be another time, one where she would bring him to justice. Not now, not when she was caught complicit. In desperation, she threw a vapor barrier to the ground, and disappeared into the smoke. Her shadowy figure faded away, and the intruder fled into the night.

»»»»»

Some hours later, Talho awoke, but noticed a sudden change of scenery. She was no longer outside on the cold pavement, where she engaged the intruder fleeing the scene. Instead, she was inside a building, lying on a hospital bed. The walls were pristinely white, and the curtains covering the window had a floral pattern to them. A nurse was tending to a needle under her skin. From it small tube leading to a suspended glass container of blood plasma. She turned and was apparently happy to see Talho had come round.

"Well, hello," the nurse said kindly. "Good to see you're still with us."

"What…what happened?" Talho eked out.

She felt so weak for some reason. How much blood did she lose that she needed a transfusion?

"That wound you got really did a number on you. You lost a lot of blood when you came to us."

The revelation shocked her tremendously. It was just a stab to the leg. How could it do so much damage? Then again, she never had been wounded before now in a fight, and had no way to gauge such things. She was always a lively girl, even if she didn't grow up with many friends. Coming home from her parents' property with scratches and cuts on her arms was natural. But this…this was nothing like before. Cautiously she tried to rise from the bed, but was immediately pushed back by the nurse.

"No, no, no, you stay in bed, missy," the nurse rebuked gently. "Your wounds need to heal."

"But I have work tomorrow," Talho explained. "The Lieutenant will have my head if I don't show up—"

"Don't worry about that," the nurse replied. "I explained everything to your officer. You'll only need a couple days to heal properly, most like. You've been wounded in the line of duty, you know."

At the thought of her wound, she remembered Holland. All she could remember was how he was right alongside her, defending her from attack by the cloaked assassin, and staying by her side until she passed out from the shock. What had become of him? Where was he?

"Excuse me asking, but did you happen to see a grey-haired boy come in? He's about my age, and he was wearing a grey jacket and yellow scarf?"

"Oh, you mean the Russian boy! Yes, he's here. Actually, he wanted to see you."

The nurse went to the door and opened it. In stepped Holland, still in his civilian clothes, hair still tousled, blue eyes still focused on her. They were fraught with concern for his friend. The only other friend he had in this whole country.

"You can speak with her, now. She's come to."

"Th-thank you, miss," he said hesitantly, his thick Slavic accent readily apparent.

The nurse stifled a laugh as she went out the door and Holland took a seat next to the bed, never laying his eyes off her.

"How are you feeling?"

"Well," Talho said jokingly, "I'm not dead yet, that much I know."

Holland looked at her injury sullenly. The wound had been bandaged, but she also had a syringe stuck in her left leg, with blood plasma slowly flowing. He never expected the suspect to put up such a strong fight as she did with them. Then again, during his times back in Stalingrad, there were many partisans who held so well in hand-to-hand combat he thought they were super humans. Fighting Germans day and night tended to increase one's own tolerance and stamina. Still, he felt guilty for not being prepared.

"I'm sorry," he lamented to his friend. "I should have been quicker."

Talho shook her head, trying to reassure him.

"Don't be, Holland. It's alright. Neither of us could have expected what this person was capable of."

"Talho…"

"Besides, I thought I held my own. Didn't you see my moves earlier?"

"Da, I did," Holland chuckled lightly. "I guess being in the militia has its benefits."

"When you're not scrubbing the floor and listening to Denisov's harangues," she added, ruefully.

Both laughed at that, easing the tension that previously had darkened the atmosphere. Talho leaned her head back into her hospital pillow and breathed slowly. It was so strange, as not long ago, this town was a peaceful, serene place. In fact, the tranquility sometimes bored her to tears. Never before in her one year of service was the militia called upon to react to anything like this. There were instances of breaking up a gang fight, catching a shoplifter, but they were all of a simple, nonthreatening nature. What she saw now was as close to real combat as she had ever been in her life.

"I don't suppose you could teach a street rat a thing or two?"

She looked up at Holland and smiled.

"If you can keep up with me."

"I don't mind, Talho. I'd love to learn from you."

With those words, Holland moved closer to the young woman on the bed. Talho knew instinctively what he had in mind. To finish what they started. She put a finger to his lips, and made one final demand.

"Only on the condition you teach me what you learned in the partisans."

"It's a deal."

She closed her hazel eyes, waiting in anticipation. Holland did the same and gently leaned over her. Slowly, the gap between their lips narrowed, inch by inch. It was the connection of a lifetime, and nothing would interrupt them this time. Even if a bomb was about to be dropped, it wouldn't stop them. With the gentle press of their lips to each other, their very first kiss was embedded in their memory. Such exhilaration. Such gentleness. Such warmth. The patient's room, the curtains, and the white walls all faded leaving only the soft, sweet feeling of their lips connected to each other.

It felt like an eternity before they broke apart, and were lost in silence, gazing into the other's eyes. The only sound that reverberated through the walls was their synched labored breathing. Is this what love is? If it is, was it possible to continue this forever, as Renton and Eureka had decided to do?

"Ahem…" said a nurse, who had come back through the door.

The silence and intimacy broken, both youngsters were startled. The nurse smiled wryly at seeing innocent romance blossoming.

"Sorry to come in at the wrong time, but it's rather late. The patient needs her sleep."

Holland rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment, and Talho could swear she saw the boy blush. Even he, who always projected the image of a hard-fighting partisan, a tough street urchin, had a gentle side. Talho could not help but giggle quietly.

"Da—err…I mean, yes. I-I sorry."

He turned to Talho and bid her a pleasant evening.

"Goodnight, Holland."

"Y-you, too. F-Feel better soon."

He started to go, but Talho grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, and pulled him close for a final kiss on his cheek. It was rough, like emery paper, but no signs of stubble.

"Will you come visit me tomorrow?" she whispered.

He gently wiped his cheek, caught amazed by this feeling. The boy finally had an anchor in this place, someone to depend on, despite all his failings and shortcomings. He had someone to confide in. With that knowledge in mind, he smiled.

"Sure thing."

»»»»»

**The next day**

At the militia office, there were feelings of disquiet. Not only among the enlisted servicemen, but among the officers as well. Despite new security measures emplaced upon the town—earlier curfews, doubled patrols, longer night watches, and the like—there was a deficit of result. The latest assassination attempt heightened concerns among the populace that the militia was ineffective. Indeed, Renton himself feared that they would not act until it was too late. The danger was more than just the life of a local hero. The trust of the people was at stake. The reputations of many an officer were on the line. Unless something drastic was done to mitigate what was a clear threat, the consequences for the militia would be severe.

In the executive office, a dark cloud seemed to hang over those present. Sitting at the desk was the bespectacled regiment commander, Major Volkov, the same man who once interrogated Holland after being picked up off the street. His green eyes showed no flagging of strength, as he had no intention of losing his position over this; he had climbed a long ladder to reach this place. Stroking his white goatee, he intently listened to the grievances of his visitors. Opposite him, sitting in two aging wooden chairs were Renton Thurston and Eureka Novikova.

Renton, thoroughly exhausted and at his wits' end over this incident, was visibly not well. His oak brown hair was scraggly and uncombed like an bird's nest. His piercing green eyes were glassy and listless, having suffered from a month of insomnia in fear of attack. Eureka was also apprehensive of all the harassment in the past months; her grey eyes were stone cold with worry and anxiety over the lack of adequate response. If the militia had been quicker, they would not be forced to take leave of the city.

Standing next to Volkov was Denisov, as still as a porcelain statue, with hands behind his back at an "at ease" stance. Any color from his face had long since been drained, yet he kept up the facade of control. However, if Renton and Eureka looked closely, they would see his mustache twitching slightly, and sweat permeating his visage from all the stress. And who would blame him? His position was being threatened not just by the higher-ups in the State Militia and outside the government doors, but by numerous complaints from victims and nagging neighbors.

"So you see, Major," Renton concluded, eyes glued to Volkov, "that is why Eureka and I have decided it's best to leave Bellforest. The sooner these hooligans are caught, the sooner we can return home."

He leaned back in his chair, and awaited a response from the commander. The boy was sure it would be a positive one, as it wasn't an unreasonable wish. Instead, Volkov delivered the opposite.

"Can't you reconsider?" he asked. "I would think moving out is quite extravagant."

"There's nothing extravagant about wanting to be away from danger, Major," Renton retorted with as much calm as he could gather.

"I understand that, but I would recommend you give us another opportunity to prove—"

"What more can you do?!" he countered, a twinge of anger in his voice. "You've had many opportunities and thus far you've failed! The only person militiaman I know who has shown any effort in getting to the bottom of this is Private First Class Yukieva, and she's now in the hospital! There've been three attempts on my life, sir, and I don't want to risk a fourth. This isn't a circumstance to be taken lightly. These people are following me so closely, they tracked me down to a friend's house and broke in without warning!"

Volkov removed his glasses, and spoke plainly.

"Mr. Thurston, with all respect, my troops are not used to this kind of situation."

Renton's brow furrowed in a hard glare.

"And why is that?"

"I'm sure you know, Mr. Thurston, but Bellforest isn't exactly rife with crime or violence. We have the occasional shoplifter, maybe a gang fight here and there, but nothing extreme like this. We were caught unprepared."

Renton and Eureka's jaws dropped at that. Neither of them could believe their ears. Was this man joking?

"Isn't it your job not to be unprepared?" Renton hissed, his voice seething. "Aren't you always supposed to be ready for any kind of danger?"

"The majority of our personnel are inexperienced," the major admitted rather casually. "Many of our enlisted servicemen are young teenagers."

"So instead of taking veteran soldiers to protect the city, you're putting children in uniforms to carry out your orders?!"

"Most of them dropped out of school to enlist. It was their choice."

Renton frowned. He didn't like the tone of this meeting, and he was faced with only more and more evidence pointing to his departure. The last thing he wanted was to be the victim of incompetence.

"You're making the case of leaving for me, sir."

"Meaning?" Volkov asked, raising an eyebrow.

Renton, now thoroughly frustrated and exhausted, stood up and banged his hands on the desk.

"How do you expect me to feel safe in my own home if your people won't do their jobs?!" he asked directly. "Are you pulling any strings behind the scenes?!"

At that allegation, Volkov nearly spat out his coffee in astonishment.

"Mr. Thurston! I'm shocked that you would think I would set these assassins upon you."

"Then why are you adamant about me staying?" Renton demanded. "You should be allowing me to go so you can catch these hooligans!"

"We have to prove ourselves not just to Bellforest, but to the whole county!" the major shot back at him. "The 303rd State Militia Regiment is dedicated to protect the people of Marin. Therefore, it is important that we redeem ourselves if we want to regain the confidence of the people."

A moment of silence gripped them all. Volkov did not scream, but his response was enough to make Eureka and Denisov flinch. Clearly, the major was just as troubled about this turn of events as Renton was. Seeing the major's point, he slowly sat back down, but his glare remained. Volkov rubbed his eyes, and the mood calmed. Arguing with someone more than half his age was not going to resolve anything.

"Listen, Renton, I am just as concerned about this incident as you are. The last thing I want is your death on my watch. We're both in this together, so let's figure out a way to make this work."

"What do you mean?"

"May I propose one of my officers drives you to Oakland Station? You will catch your train to Sacramento there."

Both Renton and Eureka were caught off-guard by the offer. Naturally, they were still apprehensive that the Major would so readily provide them the help they need. Who could blame them, after months of ineffective response and a lack of support from the militia. To prove his offer was sincere, Volkov turned to Denisov and addressed him.

"Lieutenant Denisov."

"Sir?"

"Do you have a car we can use?"

Denisov hesitated for a moment. Renton suspected he was holding out on them, and merely didn't want to be inconvenienced. Didn't he live in Bellforest anyway? Everything was within walking and minimal driving distance in this place. Oakland was only a half-hour drive away.

"I have a driver I could loan, if that is alright with Thurston."

Renton said nothing, and only waited for Denisov to elaborate.

"I can have him pick you up and drive you whenever you wish. When do you plan on leaving?"

"Immediately. Tomorrow, if possible."

"Fine. He'll come by in the morning."

"And how do I know you'll keep that promise?"

Denisov's mustache visibly twitched at Renton's lambast. However, he was determined to maintain control, like all in his regiment. Everyone's credibility was at stake.

"I have a dog in this fight, as well, Thurston. Talho Yukieva, as you rightly pointed out, was wounded by these hooligans. I intend to do everything in my power to see them captured for her sake as well as yours."

His admission was sincere, and Renton accepted it. There was nothing else he could do but go home, and await the arrival of the driver. He only prayed another attack would not come in that time. Even as he left, the dark cloud lingered over the office and everyone in it. To lose the confidence of a local town hero was already damaging to morale; to lose the faith of the entire population would be devastating.

»»»»»

**The day after**

Both had awoken to disturbing news over the radio. During the night, riots had broken out in Los Angeles between servicemen and street gangsters. Many of the gangsters were Mexican in origin, "Pachucos" as news announcers called them. While Bellforest did not boast a large Latin community, there _was_ a presence, and it immediately drew suspicions of the militia. William wondered if the assassins that tried to murder Renton three times were Pachucos themselves, but Renton fervently refuted the claim. The assassins wore military uniforms, not zoot suits. They brandished pistols, not switchblades. They were Soviets, not Mexicans. He knew a Soviet when he saw one.

William was the most worried out of everyone in the Thurston household to see Renton and Eureka go. He didn't want them staying so far away for such a long period of time, so he mandated the hotel reservation to four days. Renton protested, not wanting to return home until the threat had been mitigated, doomed to a possible execution on a matter of money. William, however, was adamant.

"Brother, I understand the need to get away, the fact is we can't afford more than four nights. I'll find another place for you."

"Like where?" Renton retorted as he pulled up his white socks. "As long as those hooligans are roaming around, I can't be anywhere near this place."

"What about our old farming neighborhood? Or have you forgotten it?"

Of course, Renton hadn't forgotten the old farm. How could he? It was where he was born. If only the economic downturn never came; they might still be living in it. He pictured it in his head for a moment, and wondered what it looked like now, after surely years of neglect. He shook his head sorrowfully, thinking that such a prospect as returning to the farm was all but impossible.

"Do we know if anyone is still around there, William? Practically everyone left after the Great Crash, didn't they?"

"Not all of them."

William gave him a small memorandum on a torn paper, written in his familiar awkward calligraphy. Renton stood up It bore the name of an old family friend. A name Renton never thought he'd hear or see again.

_J. Baxter, Sr._

_1607 Columbia Road _

"Martha?" Renton said in astonishment. "Brother, you found Martha?"

"More like she found me. Martha called me up the other day. Heard about the shootings going on and asked if everything was alright. I told her the situation, so she'll be expecting you. Do you remember how to get there?"

"I could find it blindfolded."

The matter was concluded as Renton shoved the note into his jacket pocket. In truth, he realized it would be difficult to find the Baxter residence coming from Sacramento; he only knew the way from the old family farm. Well, it would give him an opportunity to see if everything was still there. It had been eight long years since he lived there. How much had changed?

His musings were halted by the honking of a horn outside. Knowing his ride was here, he bade farewell to William. As he grabbed his suitcase and was joined by Eureka as they headed out the door, all of them could only pray that this nightmare would end soon, and life would go back to how it was, and should have been.

At the bottom of the hill, parked on the curb, sat a diminutive Willys MB Jeep with a convertible canvas roof, painted in military green. As they cautiously moved down the hill, they were greeted by the driver. A militiaman, as evident by his distinctive uniform.

He was a jovial young lad, perhaps no younger than either of them. The insignia on his sleeve denoted the rank of a corporal, denoted by two upward chevrons. He had a young face, sporting a wide friendly grin that ran from ear to ear. His hair was coal black, short in length and hidden beneath his militia-issue peaked cap. His eyes were a light brown like earth in the spring and seemed inviting, eager to please.

"Top o' the mornin' to ya, Mr. Thurston!" he greeted, shaking his hand firmly. "Name's Sumner Sturgeon. I'll be your driver today."

"Good morning," Renton returned sullenly. "You know where we need to go, right?"

"Yessir! Oakland Station. We'll getcha there."

"Thanks. Wait…what do you mean, 'we?'"

Sumner snapped his fingers in revelation.

"Oh right! I almost forgot! Listen, I hate to impose on ya, but…"

He ushered them closer, and whispered an innocent request.

"Ya mind terribly if we make a side trip? I gotta pick someone up from work, and if I don't, she'll have my head. Swear it won't take but five minutes."

"I don't mind," Renton said unaffectedly. "Only where's the work?"

"Over at the Kaiser Shipyards in Richmond. Friend works there as a welder."

"Very well. It has to be quick, though. We can't miss the train."

"Don't you worry none about that, Thurston!" Sumner assured him proudly. "Promise it'll be done in a jiff. Hop in!"

The young couple climbed into the back of the Jeep, and Sumner immediately started the engine. As they turned around and pulled away Renton looked on longingly at the lonely bungalow sitting on the hill that made their home. How long would it really be before he came home again? How long before these dark figures from his past would disappear? How long before the world would just leave him and Eureka alone?

He viewed Eureka, who sullenly looked out of the other window as they drove out of the neighborhood. Clearly, this series of unfortunate events had affected her as well. Her ash grey eyes looked empty and hollow from fatigue and paranoia. Her dark brown locks were ragged and uncombed. Her skin was paler than usual. How much had she suffered through this ordeal?

Now that he thought of it, much of her suffering was caused by him not looking to her. He always tried to shoulder the burden himself, tried not to trouble her with his problems. If he really loved her like he always said he did, he would come to her, speak his mind, let out all the pain he felt. He wasn't doing his due diligence. The first step in mending their bond was to be honest and to hold nothing back from her. Otherwise, it would only deteriorate, and he would have only himself to blame.

He would not lose her. Not so soon after getting her back.

"So tell me, Thurston," Sumner broke in, interrupting his musing, "ya hear today about those riots in Los Angeles?"

"We heard it on the radio just this morning."

"Terrible thing, that," Eureka put in. "I can only hope it doesn't reach here."

"Well," Sumner pointed out, "the Pachucos round here never caused a lot o' problems. Though with this, anything is possible. We'll be ready for 'em if they try anything."

Renton sneered at the driver's vow.

"Like how you were ready for the assassins when they attacked us?"

There was an awkward silence, broken only by the humming of the Jeep's motor. Sumner knew as well as anyone the inadequate performance of the militia in preventing these shootings. Even though he was just an enlisted man and didn't even carry a gun, he was coming under fire as well.

Renton, as resentful as he was toward the militia for not doing their job, immediately felt regretful for the inappropriate comment. Sumner was friendly to him and Eureka. It was only fair he acted the same. He didn't want to be embroiled in another heated debate.

"How did you get your job, Corporal Sturgeon?" Renton asked, trying to melt the ice.

"I enlisted, right after Pearl Harbor. Dropped outta school just to do it. Drew some flak from the folks for it, but hey, someone's gotta defend the country."

"What do you do?"

"I'm in logistics. I run ammo and supplies to the guys that need it. Us, the Army, the Marines."

"Have you traveled far?"

"Nothin' south o' San Francisco yet, but one day, maybe!" Sumner promised, laughing.

Eureka joined in laughter at the driver's light humor, and so did Renton, in spite of himself. This Sumner Sturgeon was quite the interesting character. At least there were some honest people in uniform, like him and Talho Yukieva. At least they knew what was really at stake. This was more than just a shooting or an attempted home invasion. It was life and death.

»»»»»

**Richmond, California, USA**

The shipyards alone had grown the population of Richmond almost five-fold. Henry J. Kaiser proved to be a highly efficient businessman, employing assembly-line techniques to field ships for the war effort. Renton remembered reading in one news report it only took an astonishing five days to put together one Liberty ship. By bringing in premade parts and allowing for work that required little training, rate of production increased exponentially.

There was a penchant scent of seawater in the air as gulls cried out from overhead. Sumner had to slow down the Jeep to a crawl to avoid running into dashing workers. Many of them were women, Latinos, and even blacks. It was like another world to Renton and Eureka who, in their previously idyllic serene town, were disconnected from the war effort and the war, sans what they heard through radio.

After struggling to find a space, Sumner parked the Jeep and walked out for a moment. Someone came over to greet him, presumably the person he was supposed to pick up.

It was a girl, around his age. She had reddish brown hair like gleaming bronze in the summer tied back in a ponytail and brown, droopy eyes. Around her head was a blue and white polka-dotted headscarf, meant to protect her head from flying sparks. Her face was grubby with grit and grime stained like face paint used by Indian tribes in days of old. Despite her evidently working like a dog, she could not have looked happier.

"Hey there, stranger," the girl said, grinning.

"Hello there, pretty girl," Sumner returned. "You weren't waitin' long, were ya?"

The girl laughed.

"Nope. You were on time for once."

She got up on her toes and quickly, gently, kissed him on the lips.

"So, what's the occasion?"

"I'll explain on the way," Sumner offered as he led her back to

The couple came back to the Jeep, and Sumner promptly introduced her to the young passengers.

"She's the welder friend I was tellin' ya about."

"Who're these guys?" Ruri asked curiously.

"They're the reason I'm here early. Gotta take 'em over to the station in Oakland."

"What for?"

"It's a long story. I'll explain it later."

The girl climbed into the front passenger seat next to Sumner, and they promptly started up and made off again. As they pulled away from the docks, the girl looked back and introduced herself, offering them her gloved hand.

"Name's Ruri Sullivan."

Renton shook her hand first.

"I'm Renton. Nice to meet you."

"Same here. Hope my boyfriend hasn't been botherin' ya too much with his big mouth. Has he?"

"Ruri!" Sumner broke in, disagreeably. "We're gettin' on fine. Aren't we?"

"Yeah," Renton returned quietly. "…we are, Sumner."

Richmond, being a suburb of Oakland, made the drive to the station not very time-consuming. In fact, based on what Renton could read from his watch, they were making excellent time. As they navigated through the traffic and the winding streets, they got to talking again.

"Ruri, how long have you been working in the shipyards?" Eureka asked.

"About a year, now, I think. I dropped out of school when I read about job openings in Richmond. Mom and Pop made quite a hullabaloo 'bout it, but they've made their peace with it now."

"So," Renton concluded, "you're both dropouts?"

"Yep!" they said in unison. "When we're at war, country comes first!"

Renton only nodded, admiring such devotion in the two of them. William worked long, hot hours almost seven days a week in the shipyards over in Sausalito. These young people had given up school just to aid their country in its time of need. Like them, he had to give up something to save Eureka, and bring her back. He sacrificed his innocence, and was witness to the brutal reality that was war. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make, if it meant she had a better life…by his side.

Seeing the strong conviction in these two people only further convinced him he had to show the same to Eureka. He couldn't hold out on her, nor could he turn away from her when his soul grew troubled. Being in love meant being committed. That much he knew.

Sumner and Ruri's banter went on for a while, and both feared they might not make it to the station in time. Just when he was about to ask how much longer, he heard the distant blowing of a train's whistle.

"I hope that's not ours," Eureka murmured.

Renton checked his watch. They were still safe, for now.

"Ours doesn't leave for another 10 minutes. Speaking of which, how much longer, Corporal Sturgeon?"

"We're already here. See?"

Renton looked out the window and saw indeed they had arrived. The station was a modest one, built in the Art-deco style. Aside from the ground-level railroad tracks, upon which sat several trains of the Southern Pacific awaiting departure, there were local commuters and streetcars boasting overhead electrification. There were several civilian cars parked outside the entrance, but surprisingly few civilians. Many of the passengers were soldiers, bound for training or deployment for parts unknown. In a sense of irony, they all spotted a motivational poster on the station walls, depicting myriads of troops embarking and disembarking from passenger cars. The captions read:

_Millions of troops are on the move…_

_Is __YOUR__ trip necessary?_

In ordinary circumstances, no, it wasn't. But this was different. His life was in danger. Her life was in danger. Were it not for Chertov and whoever was working under him, he would not think of travelling at all. To leave Bellforest was painful enough as it was. It was the very place they vowed to start their lives anew together. Now, respite was a rarity in the same place he called home. At least, for now it was. Hopefully it will be again, he thought as he grabbed his suitcase.

As he stepped out and led Eureka by the hand, he spoke one last time to the driver.

"Thanks for taking us this far."

"Not a problem, Thurston. Just doin' my job."

"In that case, until we meet again."

They started to go, but Sumner called to them.

"Hey, Thurston!"

Renton turned, and wondered what more this simple driver could want.

"Listen, pal," Sumner said seriously, "I know we haven't been on the top of our game lately. But we'll catch these guys, by hook or crook. Whatever it is they're up to, we'll put a stop to it."

"Is that a promise?"

"Sure as shootin', it is!" Sumner declared proudly. "And if we don't catch 'em, I'll eat my hat!"

Renton laughed at that vow.

"I'll hold you to that, Corporal Sturgeon. Thank you."

With that, the driver and the young couple parted, leaving only a trail of exhaust in his wake. They stood still for a moment, and could only listen to the ambient sounds of the miniature metropolis. Renton silently prayed this torment would end soon. The sooner he returned, the sooner these assassins were caught, and the sooner this cloak-and-dagger business ended, the better he would be for it. The better she would be. The better they would be.

A call came over a loudspeaker from the station.

"_Now departing on Track 1 for Sacramento and all points north: Train Number 1246."_

He turned to Eureka and smiled.

"Let's go. Don't want to miss our train."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Sorry about the wait. The trip to Seattle took a lot out of me, and I'm currently busy cleaning house and getting ready for a yard sale. However, I'm back with a new chapter. This one is shorter than the rest have been, but it's still important, and you will see why soon. Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

**June 5****th****, 1943**

**Bellforest, California, USA**

In the abandoned apartment, the entire squad was gearing up for one final raid. This would be the one to decide everything. It was do or die. If they didn't get the boy this time, they were never going to get him.

At least, so was the thinking of one blonde-haired blue-eyed agent.

340 was convinced this mission was doomed. Doomed as the brave soldiers at Brest Fortress were only two years prior. Regardless of what the Lieutenant Colonel's views were on the boy, she knew that she could not stand for her officer to use this as a means of revenge. She had to stop Chertov, but how? Telling him flat out that this mission was wrong was out of the question; he'd put a bullet in her head before she could finish the first sentence. The only option she had was to obfuscate, frustrate, and delay the actual deed until Chertov was brought to justice.

(A/N: Brest Fortress: A Russian fortress built in the 19th century in what is now Brest, Belarus. It was the site of one of the first major battles of Operation Barbarossa, taking place from June 22-29, 1941. The fortress held out longer than expected against the German Wehrmacht, and became a symbol of Soviet resistance during the Second World War.)

How would he be brought to justice? By whom? And would anyone in the squad even support her if she told them the real reason behind this mission?

For the time being, she would have to work alone in this. She would have to hope for an opportunity to turn him in and sever any connection she had with him. To play along in the facade was not enough; she had to slow the process and be the silent anonymous obstructer. It was more than a matter of right and wrong; it was life and death.

She continued to show signs of complicity as she checked her pistol, a Mauser C96. It was an old model, from the infant years of her Workers' Paradise. The pistol was distinct in its shape with an internal box magazine in front of the trigger and a long barrel. Wielded by Bolsheviks, Tsarists, Germans, and even Chinese according to some, the pistol was something of an icon with a coveted history. She cherished it, being given by her father as a reward for acceptance into the NKVD. He told her it was from his days as a foot soldier in the Revolution, scavenged from a dead Tsarist officer, and it should go from defender of the proletariat to another.

The pistol was used occasionally in dispatching counterrevolutionaries, and wounding common criminals. Other than that, however, it was more of a ceremonial heirloom than a practical firearm. Ammunition for it was in short supply, she noted as she pulled back the hammer and inserted a stripper clip of ten rounds. Other handguns had garnered more favor. Still, she clung to it, if only for the familial connection it held for her.

This gun will not be responsible for killing the boy.

If worse came to worse, she'd turn it on her officer…or on herself.

She would rather have death filled with darkness than a life filled with guilt.

Footsteps echoed behind her, and she turned to see her only friend, 271, the fading evening light reflecting her Central Asian complexion. Her uniform had been cast aside in favor of her civilian clothes: a grey blouse and matching skirt. In addition, she had shed the cloak and hood that would cover her visage in the dead of night; the weather had grown too hot for it. 340 wondered what she could tell her about the true impetus of their commanding officer. She had already spoken at length with her about her misgivings of this mission. But if she divulged the murderous motivation of Chertov to her, would she join her in opposition? Would she denounce her, fearful of what would happen if she was caught? Or would she simply look on in silence?

"Comrade officer," she asked with an innocent smile on her face, "are you ready?"

"Just about," 340 replied. "Are you?"

"Everyone else is. We're all waiting on you for the time being."

271's eyes turned to 340's pistol, which immediately piqued her interest.

"Well, hello, C96!" she said enthusiastically. "I didn't think anyone used those anymore. How long have you had it?"

"A while," 340 said simply. "It's a gift from my father. He served in the Security Organs in Lenin's time."

271 turned to her superior with concern.

"Is there something bothering you, 340? You seem a little off today."

How perceptive of her, she thought. Maybe this was the moment to divulge everything she had learned from Chertov. Maybe now was the time to test 271's friendship.

"There is something, actually. Remember when I told you how I still don't understand the mission? Why we are here? Why we are trying to kill a child?"

"I remember. You asked the Junior Lieutenant about it, did you not?"

"I did."

There was a tense moment of silence.

"Well, did he tell you anything?"

"He did. And it wasn't what I was expecting."

"What did he tell you?"

340 stood up, and looked at 271, straight in her dark eyes. Until she had a strategy for doing in Chertov and clearing this mess, she had to hold off on releasing too much. Heaven help her if Chertov overheard them talking.

"Not now," 340 muttered. "I will tell you, but it has to wait for the time being. I need your help in something, and the Junior Lieutenant cannot know."

271 stirred, somewhat shocked by the tone of her superior. Whatever Chertov said must have truly upset her to not want to reveal it immediately. What could he have said that struck her with such fear?

Still, it was no matter for the present. They had a raid to conduct. The specifics could be worked out later. They made their way out of the apartment and down the corridor, joining up with the three other agents. All of them had likewise tossed aside their uniforms in favor of civilian clothes to blend in. However, 340 wondered whether they would even be needed. This raid was to be conducted at night, when they would not be in sight of any witnesses. Still, Chertov had ordered them to don disguises, and thus they followed. Hopefully, it would the last order 340 would have to follow from him.

As they trekked down the stairs towards the bottom floor, the setting sun's rays breaking through the unclean windows, 340 wondered why she had even taken the assignment in the first place. The Lieutenant Colonel never presented a choice; he simply barked his orders to her and expected compliance. She asked a few questions and got glares and a lecture in return. Had she spoken up one too many times, the Lieutenant Colonel might have broken his vodka bottle on her head. She should have declined the mission in retrospect, perhaps take an assignment that would have left her in Stalingrad.

The life of a soldier was not one that thrilled her to begin with; her life as a policeman and dispatcher of internal enemies had kept her busy and content. When Stalingrad was threatened, all the other agents were called to defense, and she joined them. Not out of want, but out of a sense of duty. Had she the opportunity to go back and work her will, she would never even have bothered with the offer to visit the Lieutenant Colonel. An easy excuse could have been sent off to him. Perhaps a special mission had been given to her, and she would not be in the area to meet him. She had to oversee reconstruction efforts, and was confined to Stalingrad.

As darkness fell on the town, she realized Chertov was conspicuously absent in the raid. He was content to bark orders into their ears from the apartment building. Then again, now that the militia was on high alert, he had good reason to stay behind. If he was caught, the entire mission was as good as over. However, the militia provided an opportunity as well. They would highly desire a bank of information on Chertov like her. Of all the people who participated in the mission, only she truly knew what this was about. Perhaps if the opportunity presented itself, she would find a way to work with them.

Of course, such devious and underhanded betrayal would come at a price. As long as it meant she was rid of him, and could return home unmolested and resume a normal life as a security officer, she would gladly pay the price, no matter how exorbitant.

Getting to the house took longer than expected, mostly due to the militia patrols. Thanks to their repeated failures, militiamen were found on almost every street corner. In a local newspaper she read only yesterday, their entire credibility was on the line, and concerns were only raised further with the outbreak of riots in Los Angeles between servicemen and Chicano youths. She never spotted many Mexicans in town, but there was a definite presence, and understandably, they drew many a suspicious eye. Maybe the threat of gang violence from irascible young Chicanos would keep the militia off-balance and stretched thin. If that happened, the chances for Chertov to find and kill Thurston would only increase.

It was not a situation she would let him take.

What felt like hours passed as 340 and the other agents wound their way through the streets, avoiding patrols whenever possible. Hurdling fences. Sneaking under windows. Seeking refuge in the shadows, and avoiding the light. So much like her profession had demanded of her. Perhaps if this war ended, she should seek a different profession, and turn away from the dark secrecy of the State. But what?

A doctor?

A teacher?

A worker?

After so many years at war, could she ever truly return to a normal life? In a profession like a security officer, was her life ever normal in the first place?

Her musings were finally brought to an end with the sighting of the Thurston residence. Immediately her thoughts shifted to what she could do to bring about a change. If the American Russian really _was_ there, after all these failed attempts, he had the strength of a stone wall. If he had vacated, gone off to parts unknown, then this mission truly was doomed, and their capture would only be a matter of time. As the agents crawled into the bushes to escape exposure by a passing patrol, 340 wondered if they weren't walking into a trap. It would not come as a surprise if such was the case. The militia could hardly afford to take these shootings and threats lying down.

She looked at her watch. Five minutes to ten. Five minutes until they would attempt to finish this accursed job one last time. Five minutes before she had to make a decision regarding not just the boy's fate, but her own. Five minutes before it all ended, one way or another.

340 quietly gave what she hoped would be her final orders.

"Comrades, let's make this our last attempt to kill Renton Thurston. We will enter the house and finish what we started. You should all know your individual tasks by now."

The girl paused for a moment, wondering if this was really it, and what on earth would happen next if it was. She only prayed that it would not go as Chertov would like it to. She'd rather shoot herself and be condemned to an eternity of emptiness.

"Any questions?"

"_340,"_ 271 asked, speaking from behind a fencepost, _"Who will infiltrate the house first?"_

"I will," 909 spoke up, lying next to 340.

340 could certainly understand 909's desire to do so. She had been held captive by the boy and his friends. It was only natural that the youngest agent would want some payback for the abuse and sleepless nights the militia put her through.

"Very well," 340 said, "but I'll follow. Anything else?"

Silence hung over them. There was nothing left to say.

"Then let's begin."

340 looked back at her wristwatch, and saw the minute hand creep closer and closer to the number ten. The blonde had to wipe away some sweat from her forehead. Five seconds to go. The time was almost upon them, as she mentally waged silent battles about what would happen inside that house.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

"Go!"

In a flash, all five members of the squad ran up the hill, each coming from different directions and converging around the little bungalow, as they had done so many times before. 340 followed 909 up to the front door, and stood watch as she went to the work of picking the locks. She still had her kit with her, and it was a matter of seconds before she broke the lock on the door and quietly advanced into the Thurston residence. The door squeaked as it gently swung open.

340 followed suit. The very instant she set foot on the wooden floorboards, she felt something was amiss. It all seemed far too easy. Not only were the locks easily picked, but there was not a sound in the house. Not even snoring. It felt eerie, almost like wandering into a haunted house.

The duo turned left and went down the short hall, approaching the American Russian's bedroom. The door was left ajar, and allowed for easy access. 340 this time led the way as she cautiously pushed it open, aiming her pistol at the bed. Two lumps protruded from underneath the sheets. Their target was in sight. Now, however, something was definitely off.

"Now's our chance," 909 whispered, smirking.

"Be careful," 340 cautioned.

909 produced a dagger and silently approached the sleeping couple. Before either of them could execute any attack, 340 looked closer at the bed. None of this felt right. Neither of the figures were moving. There wasn't even the sound of breathing. Just deathly silence.

909 grasped at the sheet on the bed, and yanked it off.

Two life-size dummies lay motionless on the bed.

"What the hell…?" 909 growled in frustration. "A damned decoy…!"

"_340," _271 called through her communicator, _"what's going on in there?"_

"Stay where you are, squad," 340 commanded. "Do not enter the house. I repeat: do _not_ enter."

"_Understood."_

"909, search the room for explosives."

While 909 did as she was told, 340 examined the dummy. All she could find was a note attached to its face with a safety pin. The handwriting was small and blocky, but more surprising was it was entirely in Russian. The note read:

_Chertov,_

_Make no mistake. We're on to you. It is your turn to fear for your life._

_H.N._

After reading the note aloud for 909 to hear, 340 came to a realization. This changed everything.

"They know about us."

"What do you mean, 'they know?'" 909 asked, bewildered.

"Just what it says on the note, 909. The militia are on to us. And they know exactly who to look for."

At least the militia and whoever H.N. was understood it was her officer that was the guilty party. If not, they would come to understand it in time, even if she had to denounce him herself. As if on cue, the sneering voice of her commander came through the radio.

"_Ageha Squad, report on the situation."_

340 was hesitant. To divulge the true extent of failure would surely incite his wrath, and perhaps set something in him off. She was already well-acquainted with his beastly temper. What on earth would he say if she chose to be the bearer of bad news?

"_Ageha Squad, reply at once. This is Lieutenant Chertov."_

340 gulped, and pressed on her communicator. There was no sense in hiding it.

"This is 340."

"_Explain the situation, 340. What's happening over there?"_

"There's no one in the house, sir."

A slight pause. She thought she could hear him growling in frustration.

"_What do you mean?"_

"Just that, sir. No one is here. The place has been cleared out."

Again, silence over the intercom. 909 spoke up while Chertov tried to muster a response. Clearly, the turn of events had shocked him as much as the two of them.

"I don't understand," she said quietly. "It's as if they knew we were coming."

"That's just it, 909. They did know. And that's why they left; they didn't want to risk getting killed another time. And now, they've sent the militia after us."

"_Thurston is a clever bastard,"_ Chertov interrupted. _"What else could he do after three failed attempts on his life? In all honesty, this is to be expected."_

The girls could not believe what they were hearing. It seemed their officer had fully anticipated this. Then again, any one of them could have done the same as well. But what struck her odd was how composed Chertov was. There was not a twinge of anger or frustration in his voice. Rather, she only heard the cynical calculation expected of a veteran officer, a skilled strategist. Did he actually have a plan to contend with this unforeseen situation?

"Sir?"

"_Come back to the apartment complex, Ageha Squad. This requires a change in strategy."_

340 was puzzled. What on earth could they possibly do now? As far as she saw it, the mission was over, and any chances of dispatching Thurston was doomed. More importantly, she had to find a way to indict Chertov and bring an end to this madness. She weighed her options silently, and spoke through the communicator.

"Very well, sir. By the way, we found a note left behind. It's addressed to you."

Chertov laughed.

"_How cute. Thurston was kind enough to tell me he left?"_

"I don't think it's from Thurston, sir."

"_No? Then who is it from?"_

"There's no name. Only the initials H.N."

Suddenly, the anger and frustration 340 was so accustomed to from Chertov was immediately felt. So acute was it she practically felt her neck and face burn like hot coals raked over a fire. There was a slight grinding of teeth and a low, animalistic snarl. Then, he muttered something under his breath, her ears barely catching it.

"_So…Holland is alive, is he?"_

"Holland, Lieutenant?"

"_Never mind. I'll explain later. For now, come back to the apartments. Chertov out."_

The sound cut out, and the agents were left in darkness and bewilderment. 909 shrugged her shoulders and made for the front door. Nothing was left here of importance. 340 followed, hesitantly, wondering what on earth had just transpired, and what on earth Chertov could be planning now. His chance for revenge was gone, as far as any of them knew. The most he could hope for was a kind reception upon returning home, and not face a discharge by the Lieutenant Colonel for his failure. Nothing felt right as she exited the house and made her way down the hill, joining the other agents waiting for them.

In the long, treacherous journey back to the complex, 271 confided her shock and surprise at these events to 340.

"Don't you find it odd Thurston would choose to leave now?" she mused. "He never took any chances to do so before."

"He's not the kind that would just run away," 340 replied as they bounded over a picket fence. "Chertov told me so himself."

At the utterance of his name, 271 instantly remembered how troubled 340 was before this started. How she constantly wondered what this was all for, and what purpose the boy's death would serve. With the eyes of a caring friend entreating to confide in her, she asked,

"340, didn't you say Chertov told you the reason why we are doing all of this in the first place?"

"He did."

"Well, what did he say?"

Insistence was clear in 271's voice. Her grey eyes emanated worry and concern. 340 could not hope to dance around or will away the issue facing her…and potentially all of them. When the moment came, she may have need of 271. The time had come, she thought as they went down a dark alley to evade a patrol. They stopped for a moment, and she mentally crossed the Rubicon. 271 had a right to know. No, she _needed_ to know. Continuing her reserve on the issue would only make the young blonde security officer regret it more. And she had a suspicion she would need all the help she could get.

"Chertov is using us for revenge against the American."

271's eyes bulged, and she was visibly bowled over, perhaps even made ill by this sudden revelation. Throughout this time, she never really wondered why they had to kill the boy. The Lieutenant Colonel never gave a reason, only that it was classified. Chertov was likewise very tightlipped. However, this changed everything.

340 regurgitated all Chertov had told her the week prior. The month spent tormenting and bullying the young Renton Thurston who had traveled abroad. His friends falling away and turning to the foreigner. Days spent in battle not out of sense of duty but in a bid to seek glory and outshine the American. Their rivalry reestablished in the ruins of Stalingrad. The offering by the Lieutenant Colonel for a chance at revenge. By the end of the tale, Chertov was not a stable, model officer that 271 thought he was. He had turned into something twisted and dark. A psychotic, egotistical brat in a uniform too big for his size. A self-serving opportunist, seeking attention he did not deserve.

The girls stood in silence, not minding the lateness of the hour or the need to return to their headquarters. 271, shaken by this newfound information, leaned against the wall of the alley. How could she have been such a fool to get caught up in this? How could she have been played so easily into being an accomplice for another's selfish scheme? She shook her head in a mixture of disappointment and disgrace.

"We've been played like pawns…"

"I'm afraid it seems that way," 340 concurred, balling her hands into fists.

"So, what's to be done?" 271 asked. "Do you intend to do anything with him?"

"I…do plan to turn him in, but…"

340 halted, wondering whether if she could divulge a plan to anyone. She had not come up with anything concrete; until now, she was playing the role of willing co-conspirator, silently weighing options in the shadows and in-between missions.

"But?" 271 pressed.

"But it's not time yet," 340 admitted. "I'll bring him to justice when the opportunity presents itself."

"And what of the other agents? Have you told them any of this?"

"I'm not even sure if they would side with me. You're the only one I can readily confide in about this, 271."

The Kazakh girl smiled and laughed quietly at that.

"I appreciate that. But what if the others get suspicious?"

"Then I will have to come up with something creative. Besides, I doubt they'd care about the reasons. It's just another job for them that gets them a paycheck."

"Too true," 271 chuckled ruefully. "Well, comrade, I will help you in whatever way possible."

340, while welcoming the chance of more helping hands, had to be sure she wouldn't turn and denounce her. She had to be resolute. Once the line of treachery had been crossed, there would be no going back.

"I don't wish to pressure you, 271. If you are more content to stay out of it, then—"

"I'm not too thrilled about being a pawn in someone's game for revenge, 340," 271 said firmly. "I find the entire thing childish and foolish."

340 smiled, seeing she would not need to worry about betrayal. At least she wasn't alone in her sentiments on the matter. It was not fair to anyone in the squad to be used as stepping stones in a path to revenge against a 17-year-old boy.

"On that, we can agree."

A secret partnership was formed as they made their way back to the apartment complex, taking care to avoid patrols. For now, they would remain silent and appear complicit. At least they had refuge in this small victory. The last break-in and the secrets revealed therein sabotaged Chertov's plans once more. Renton Thurston was no longer in Bellforest. Hopefully, he wouldn't come back until Chertov had been stopped at last. 340 would make sure of that. She did not make her way to the NKVD to be a willing accomplice in an act of cold-blooded, passionate murder.

The only question remained: how to bring him down?


	18. Chapter 18

******A/N: Okay, it's been far too long. I won't go into detail about why it's been this long, but I'll be to the point: right now, I'm going through mom and I are going through our house and seeing what stuff can be sold. The entire house is also getting a makeover, and my Mom can't do the work by herself. So a lot of times, I just don't have the energy to write. That said, I'll try not to have this happen often. It's a good thing we're entering the home stretch on this story now, though. A big confrontation is around the corner, and then it's all downhill from there. So this is just further building up to that. Enjoy, and again, sorry for the wait.**

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**Chapter Eighteen**

**June 6****th****, 1943**

She was late.

Holland tapped his foot impatiently, trying to keep himself from exploding in frustration. Surely patrolling didn't take that long. Then again, with Denisov always in charge, Talho must be suffering from his long rants. She could also still be struggling with her injuries, having only just been released from the hospital. For two days and nights, he visited her, confided in her, and told her everything he could about the potential suspect who was the cause of all this ire and fuss.

At the same time, Holland also began to sense feelings of attraction to the Russian private first class. It was intense enough for them to share their first kiss. That kiss established something, but he couldn't bring himself to act on it. He held back, fearing what may happen with a lunatic run amok, threatening not just Renton, but potentially Eureka and himself and Talho as well. He had to hold back from falling for her, if only until this mess was cleaned up.

Before he could continue on in his musings, Talho entered the cafe, and Holland saw her. While she looked around to see where he was, he watched her through the throngs of anonymous civilians. She stood out, and stood tall from the masses. A single, beautiful flower amongst the weeds.

She wore her ordinary uniform, olive green in color, patterned after the Imperial Russian Army during the last Great War. It reminded him of a photograph he once saw in a history book, of soldiers dedicated to dying for the Tsar. That same book told of Russia's suffering in that war, before the Revolution delivered the people from the Tsar's corruption. The same Revolution that had sent countless others like her into exile all over the world. The same Revolution that galvanized madmen like Chertov to abuse and murder innocents like him.

Chertov…

The name made him curl his fists in anger. Malicious thoughts ran laps around his head at the thought of what he could be doing now, and what he would do if they finally met, as he was sure they would. No doubt, Chertov had found out he was still alive. If that were the case, no doubt he would also target him, and anyone close to him…including Talho.

He would not lose her. The one person he had to depend on in this new world and new life he had forged for himself. This one strong flower that had lifted him out of the weeds and shown him the Sun.

The young boy waved his hand to get her attention. Talho smiled and walked over to him at his table. He immediately noticed she was alone, not accompanied by her lieutenant as was usually the case. Good thing too, he thought. That stuck-up bastard would never let him get anywhere near her while on patrol.

"Good morning, Talho," Holland greeted her as she sat down.

"Good morning."

Talho leaned over and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. Holland flushed at that, and felt in an instant to embrace her, and pour out everything in his heart. But that was for another day and another time.

"I was just about to go look for you," Holland commented. "It took you longer to get here than usual."

"I know. Sorry about that. The Lieutenant told me to take my time getting to the cafe. I couldn't believe it! Denisov was actually nice to me…that was a welcome change."

"You were wounded in the line of duty," he reminded her. "It's to be expected that Denisov would be concerned."

At that, a waitress came up to their table.

"Would either of you like something to drink?"

"Yes, thank you," Talho replied. "I'll have some black tea."

"And you, sir?"

Holland stuttered, and tried to formulate some words. Despite being learning some English phrases from Talho and Renton, he still had only a rudimentary grasp of the language. Clearly, when this was over, he needed to seriously pick up his slack. He whispered in Talho's ear, begging for help.

"Kak pa-angliiski chyornii chai?" (A/N: How do you say black tea in English?)

Talho smiled and explained to the waitress.

"He'll have the same thing."

"Coming right up."

After the waitress left them alone, Talho looked up at Holland, who rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment.

"Sorry about that," Holland said contritely. "I promise when this whole ordeal is over, I'll take some English lessons."

"No worries."

There was a slight pause, before they went straight to the business before them.

"How do you think those assassins reacted when they found the decoy?"

"Pretty shocked and pissed, I'm sure," Holland chuckled. "Those hooligans are probably getting a verbal beating from Chertov."

"Chertov…"

Talho pondered for a moment over the name of the mastermind behind Thurston's harassment. Holland had often talked at length about him in the wake of the second home intrusion, but she still had only a vague idea of just who they were facing. He struck the image of a cunning fox and a devious serpent, hiding in the grass and waiting for a moment to strike its prey.

"I wonder what he is plotting right now."

"What is there to plot?" Holland asked. "As long as we keep Renton's whereabouts a secret, there's nothing he can do."

"What if he figured it out somehow? Bellforest has a tendency for gossip. In a place as small as this, nothing stays a secret for very long."

Holland said nothing, knowing she had a point. Regardless, it was something they were determined to not let happen. God only knew what would transpire if word ever did break out. If he went off in search of him, the militia would only be trailing behind, striving to catch up. There would be hell to pay.

"Let's just hope it doesn't come to that," Talho said quietly.

"I think we can agree there."

The waitress came back with a platter carrying their teas. As she set them down, she engaged the two youngsters in an innocent interrogation.

"Here you are. By the way, are you two together?"

Holland did not know much English, but he certainly understood that, enough to blush and look away. Talho giggled in response.

"Well, sort of."

"Sorry for prying," the waitress said sheepishly. "You two just seemed so well acquainted with each other. I just had to ask. Anyway, enjoy your tea."

The waitress left, and an awkward silence held them in a tight grip. As Holland poured cream into his tea and Talho deposited sugar in hers, both contemplated the question. In different circumstances, certainly they would be together. To him, it meant putting the question aside for another time, to settle privately and with no distraction. Especially not one that threatened their very lives. To her, it meant settling the matter now, before anything happened to either of them.

"So, Holland," Talho asked jokingly, "are we _together_?"

He turned to her with striking blue eyes, piercing like falling icicles from a cave ceiling. There was a time and a place for everything. He would gladly answer her question, if it weren't for Chertov and his goons terrorizing the place…and him.

"Talho," he said sincerely, "I think it's best we hold off on that until another time. We have a psychopath running about trying to harm my family."

Talho sighed, as if she saw his response coming from a mile away. The smile ran away from her face, and the mood turned more serious.

"Did that kiss in the hospital mean nothing, then?"

He could not help but feel a pang of hurt when she said that. Of course, it meant something. It meant the whole world to him. Never before did he feel more alive, more anchored, and more at home than he did right there beside her lying on that bed. If only that kiss had lasted longer, and he could have told her so much more then. If only Chertov had never bothered with getting revenge, and they might have a completely different conversation.

"Just because we're chasing a madman doesn't mean we drop everything else, Holland. I don't want to leave this up in the air."

Holland stared into Talho's hazel eyes, hard as steel. Why wasn't he saying everything he felt right here and now? He had the courage to fight the Germans in Stalingrad. He had the resilience to live in abject misery in a warzone. He had the strength to spend days and nights living on the street with next to no comforts until she came along. Why couldn't he have that courage, that resilience, that strength to confess to her and himself at a time like this?

Renton had been right. Being honest with one's feelings was the hardest thing one could do.

"You really want an answer? Even with everything that is at stake?"

"I'd rather have an answer now than spend the next few days not knowing."

"Talho…"

"Yes, Holland?"

Their faces drifted closer to each other, each waiting for a response of some kind. Should he go first or should she? Could he even put everything he felt right now into words, synthesize all of his emotions into a single sentence? Or would doing so only make it simplistic?

"I can't tell you right now, but I can show you."

Before she could protest, their lips pressed, and it was enough for her. True, it wasn't all she was looking for, but in a time of tension and crisis, something this small and simple would satisfy her feelings. However, when it was all over, and when things went back to normal, both had to come to terms. Not just with each other, but themselves as well.

"That'll do," Talho whispered against his lips, smiling. "For now. But when this is over, we need to have the talk."

After that quick exchange of affection, the two young Russians set to work, discussing all the possible moves Chertov could make, and what could be done to prevent him. She heard childhood stories, giving insight into just who they were dealing with. A bratty, slimy opportunist with a violent temper. Slimy, but smart. He was not an opponent to be taken lightly.

»»»»»

In another part of town, a young figure walked along the cobblestone street, taking note to avoid the militia patrols. He could swear they had now tripled in frequency. While he was dressed in civilian clothes and looked practically indistinguishable from a normal American, he never took any chances.

Ilya Chertov had had it. His current strategy obviously was not working. It was akin to punching blindly, hoping he would land a blow on Renton Thurston's face. Clearly, the agents provided to him by the Lieutenant Colonel weren't going to be enough to bring him down. He needed to think this through, and plan out what he could do if he found the location of his illusive target. So far, nothing had come to his mind. Just then, he passed by a tavern on the main drag leading into downtown. Perhaps a cold beer and some relaxation would do him some good.

He entered, greeted by the soft cacophony of chatter. Shuffling past chairs and booths where loners, lovers, friends and family sat in celebration of life and its pleasantries, he found a stool over at the bar. It wasn't very crowded, just as he liked it. He preferred to be alone. Once he did have his friends, but they were long gone, numbered amongst the casualties of war. Instead he found refuge and belonging with the soldiers of the Red Army, fighting a hated, invading enemy. The same soldiers who followed and carried out his orders to the letter. The same soldiers who were willing to fight and die out of love for the Motherland.

The soldier that Renton Thurston wished he was.

As these thoughts ran through him, a bartender approached Chertov, with a note of suspicion in his dissecting brown eyes.

"Aren't you a little young to be drinkin', kid?"

Chertov shot an annoyed glare at the bartender and produced his (forged) identification, signifying he was of age. The bartender did not quarrel with that piece of information, and asked what he would like.

"Do you have vodka?"

"Sure, we do."

"I'll have that, with tonic water."

"Comin' right up."

While the bartender fixed Chertov's order, he scanned the tavern. He could see proletarians bumping shoulders with bourgeoisie. Lumber mill workers and shipbuilders, farmers and store owners. They were all men and women from different walks of life, yet he could not feel the slightest bit of tension or animosity among any of them. In this haven for the capitalists, the complete polar opposite of his Workers' Paradise, there was no evidence of struggle between the two classes.

They were blinded, he thought, blissfully unaware of the divide that separated them.

"Here ya are, sir."

The bartender broke his chain of thoughts by placing a shot glass filled with clear vodka before him. Chertov tossed some change his way and promptly drank. Normally, he didn't drink while on duty, but this was an exception. Failure after failure weighed heavily on him. He had to change this around and force a result, lest he face the wrath of the Lieutenant Colonel.

Now that he thought of it, why did the Lieutenant Colonel want Renton Thurston dead so badly? He barely knew the boy personally. As he remembered, at the time of his first visit, he was in the middle of training to become a political officer. Not long after he left, he went on to serve in Mongolia, guarding against the Japanese. He really had no grudge against the boy that Chertov could remember. Why, then, did the Lieutenant Colonel so readily provide Chertov an opportunity to exact revenge?

Well. No matter.

He'd find out at a later time, he presumed.

Suddenly the bell hanging over the door rang, signaling a new customer approaching. Chertov looked over his shoulder and saw two men walk in, dressed in militia uniforms. Both looked to be in their early twenties. Both also looked like they were on break. He took another sip from his vodka as the two militiamen passed, listening in on their conversation.

"Damn, what a hot day to be out on a patrol," the brown-haired private said.

"Hard work, but it's a penny in the pocket," the blonde-haired sergeant replied. "Gotta look at it that way, mate."

"True, true. Though, personally, I wish I could head back to Sacramento after all this. Most of the family's out there."

The two soldiers sat down at the bar and asked for two beers. Chertov leaned in, hoping to hear something regarding his rival.

"Say, Sergeant," the private asked, "did you hear anything about what happened to that Thurston kid a week ago?"

Chertov smirked. He could not believe his good fortune.

"Don't know," the sergeant responded, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe he moved someplace else."

"Wait a minute. You think he left Bellforest?"

"That's what the captain told me, anyway."

"But where to?"

The bartender came back with a pitcher of beer, pouring it into two mugs for the soldiers. They clinked them in a toast and promptly drank. Chertov likewise sipped his vodka, soaking in the conversation that he hoped would give away his nemesis. He actually had to resist the urge to laugh at the sheer irony of the scene.

"As far as I know, probably some place with good apartments and hotels."

"Sounds like Sacramento to me."

Chertov began to piece the hints together. Perhaps Thurston was hiding somewhere in the state capital. But there were surely hundreds of hotels he could stay in, weren't there? He decided to play along, and quickly devised a cover for himself.

"Excuse me," he said in the best American accent he could do, "I couldn't help but overhear you saying some things about Sacramento."

"What about it?" asked the private.

"I happen to be heading there soon."

"What for?"

He quickly searched for a number of believable alibis he could pass off as truth. He found one suitable for his purposes.

"I'm going there…for some official business."

The private smiled.

"That so? What line of work you in?"

"Oh…just life insurance. Nothing too interesting."

The sergeant laughed.

"One of those insurance salesmen, eh? And here I thought you were a coffee boy!"

Chertov repressed an urge to assault this sergeant for such talk. He had to maintain his cover and get what he needed.

"So," the private continued, "what kind of hotel are you looking for?"

"Something affordable, but not a fleabag. Get my meaning?"

"Yeah, sure. Well, you want a nice stay for a good price, best place to go is the Cypress."

"The Cypress?"

"Yeah, stayed there once before when visiting family. Got nice rooms, good service, and it's in a decent neighborhood. How long you thinkin' of stayin' out there?"

"It depends…on how the business goes."

Chertov mentally rejoiced as he finished off his vodka, and ordered another drink. In the back of his mind, he had an idea of exactly where to find Renton Thurston and dispatch him at long last. However, there were a few more things missing from the plan. He needed time, something of which he had a severe deficit.

"Do you happen to remember the address of the Cypress?" Chertov asked finally.

"Not offhand, sorry," the private admitted. "Though I'm sure if you phone them, they can tell you."

"Thanks much, sir."

"Not a problem."

Chertov smiled inwardly as he now knew exactly where to go. If he worked fast and devised a clever enough plan, the entire operation could still go off without a hitch. What was clear, however, was that he had to do this himself. 340, 271, and the others could no longer be depended upon to do his work for him. No matter, he thought. If one wanted something done right, one had to do it oneself. He'd include them somehow, but just not in the direct role he was to play.

Besides, he desperately wanted to see him again. See him beg for mercy before the final kill. Plead for clemency, ask what he can do to make this go away. Drink in the victory before finally exacting revenge.

After more chatter between him and the two militiamen, he finished his drink and made his way back to the apartment. There was much work to be done.

»»»»»

Whilst the agents went to the business of investigating the Cypress Hotel (along with any other hotels the target would be at), Chertov again frequented the tavern. However, the town had taken on a different aura in the night. Almost forbidding and unsettling. A low fog hung over from the mountains, and a cold wind was moving in. If he didn't know any better, he would say the town was in the middle of autumn. It had grown so cold he actually had to don a heavy brown coat to conceal him. While appearing distant and untouchable, he was in truth seeking more help.

He knew the agents could not be readily depended on to get his work done. They had failed three times to dispatch the American he so sought for. Three times were enough for him. Clearly, help was needed, and he'd be damned if he was to send a message to the Lieutenant Colonel begging for more aid. It would take weeks, perhaps months, for any assistance to arrive from there. Instead of waiting forever and potentially missing his chance to land the killing blow, Chertov chose instead to look around town for those who could be of help.

Naturally, he was not about to let on his true intention, and the very nature of his job required he seek out certain people over others. He couldn't just turn to any average man in the street for assistance in assassination. Instead he would look for the reprobates, the victims and the outcasts. Those desperate enough to turn to any job for security, even if it meant committing murder. And to make doubly sure he would find someone, he brought along something extra, tucked in the inside of his coat.

The bell rang as he entered, and he immediately noticed the difference in character compared to the tavern in the afternoon. There was no lively chatter; only the eerie sound of a piano being played in the corner. The tavern itself was almost empty, save for a few unsavory-looking characters scattered in their own corners. The bar was tended to by a lone, fat bartender with a black mustache. Strangely, the bartender didn't even ask for identification when Chertov requested a bottle of vodka be brought to him. Only that he pay for the full bottle.

He sat down at a long wooden table, nervously rubbing his shot glass with his fingers, scanning the room for any potential collaborators.

A slovenly man downing a mug of beer in a booth, with an equally slovenly woman beside him. Two youngsters drunkenly singing the melody of the piano. A well-dressed lady fiddling with her margarita.

None of them seemed appropriate enough for the job. That is, none who currently sat in the tavern.

But with another ringing of the bell, the door flung open to the wild, rousing cheers and chatter of a group of irascible youths. Eight of them, if not more. And he instantly recognized them for the dwellers of the underworld that they were. With baggy pegged trousers, flamboyant long coats with wide lapels, and glittery chains, they piled into the tavern, calling the bartender _"amigo"_ and _"compadre."_ One of them, a tall, slick-haired 23-year-old, presumably the leader, asked for a round of tequila. The bartender immediately fetched a bottle, without so much as asking for identification.

Chertov smirked, realizing exactly what kind of people had wandered in.

They were Pachucos. The object of national attention, stemming from the ongoing riots in Los Angeles. Exactly the types he was looking for.

The Pachucos all congregated around his table, and the leader asked if anyone else was coming to join Chertov. Chertov admitted no, and they all took that as the cue to find their respective seats, swapping stories of revelry and tough street fights. All the while, Chertov fiddled with his vodka, pretending to be deeply intrigued by the stories they spun.

"Remember that _gringo_ who accused us for loitering?" a 19-year-old zoot suiter quipped. "We gave him a throttling he'd never forget!"

"That's nothing, Raul," a 20-year-old retorted. "What about that time when Chuck got in our faces? If we beat him any further, he'd be down in the bay by now."

"I've got a better story," the leader declared.

Chertov leaned in instinctively, eager to hear how capable these Pachucos could be in doing his bidding.

"Do you all remember our first paid assassination against that 'hero' who stole everything from us? That bastard who thought he was going to have a happy life while putting us all in poverty?"

Raul sneered at the mention of their victim.

"That _cabr__ó__n_ got what was coming to him. The factory manager didn't deserve any praise."

Chertov smiled inwardly, seeing how closely he could relate to them. He too was dealing with a so-called hero, placed on a false pedestal. A bourgeois pipsqueak worshipped like a god while he was constantly refused any similar treatment, and even rebuked for suggesting that boy anything but a hero. The young lieutenant leaned over and watched as the leader produced a bag of coins from his zoot suit pocket.

"And did Victor pay for our services? MUCHO!"

The purse fell onto the table with a clink. Clearly, these Pachucos could work for spare change, but Chertov had brought some insurance with him just to be sure. The leader turned and spoke to the young officer incognito personally.

"That just shows you how low Pancho and his friends will stoop."

He raised a glass of tequila in a toast.

"Estoy en lo cierto, mis amigos?"

All the Pachucos nodded their heads and drank in agreement. There was a lone hiccup among the gangsters, coming from the youngest, who looked to be 17.

Seizing an opportunity, Chertov went for his trump card from his coat pocket, and called the Pachucos to attention.

"I can tell you've accomplished a lot of things. But, how would you compadres like to make some _real_ money?"

He pulled out a stack of bills, held together by a paper strap. It fell to the table with a light thud, and he grinned in anticipation as all the young men gawked at the amount of money offered. Before he came over, Chertov had counted 10,000 dollars in funds for his stay in America; out of that, he offered 2,000 for their assistance. He tried his best to save it for essentials such as food, water, and small pleasantries. However, now that things had taken a turn for the worse, he needed to use whatever means available to him to get any help possible. Besides, it wasn't like he was going to need the money by the time he finished the job.

The leader, his interest piqued by the large stipend, talked it over personally with the young boy, eager to know what he and his fellows had to do.

"What kind of job are you thinking of, mi amigo?"

Chertov smirked, knowing he had this gangster in his pocket. He couldn't mince words, but he couldn't reveal the true details of his situation, either. Who knows if these men were sympathetic to the American?

"I guess you all know about the riots in Los Angeles, no?"

At the word "riot," all the Pachucos began to hiss and moan in disapproval. Clearly, their pride was stinging just as badly as the flesh of those gangsters in Los Angeles.

"Well, there's a kid in town I'm trying to get rid of, but the militia are protecting him. Naturally, I can't take on those Keystone Cops all by my lonesome."

"Are you saying you want us to go after that _milicia de gringos_?" Raul suggested.

"…Something like that."

There was a slight murmur of discontent and skepticism amongst the Pachucos. Clearly, this would be a big job, more than just mere assault or murder. This was akin to starting a revolt, a revolution. The leader, Pancho, spoke softly and inquired seriously about the project.

"Look, if you're thinking we're some kind of army, it's not like that. Hell, some of us don't even have switchblades. How do you expect us to take them all on?"

Chertov grinned, his teeth gleaming with the luster of a bayonet.

"Just leave that part to me; I can get the tools you need."

Pancho turned to the others, and there was a small discussion in a mixture of Spanish, English, and some words Chertov couldn't catch. There was still some feeling of reservation among the gang.

"It's risky," Pancho said, nervously.

Chertov's grin began to fade.

"Well, I didn't say the job didn't come without risks. If you're not willing to take it, I know plenty of people who are…"

He reached over for the bundle of bills, but was immediately stopped by Pancho, whose eyes conveyed a fear of opportunity lost.

"We'll take it, we'll take it!"

"That's better."

In truth, Chertov didn't have anyone else who could do this job outside of the agents, but none of that mattered; they fell for his bluff. He let Pancho hold on to the money, and he whispered,

"And I have plenty more where that came from…amigo."

After a shaking of hands and a clinking of glasses to seal the deal, Chertov handed Pancho a slip of paper. On it, lay an address where Pancho and the others could reach him and discuss the deal further. They drank on into the night, swapping stories of past confrontations, both real and imagined. Both made a mental note to prepare their respective entourages for the upcoming battle. There would be a great battle; of that, neither had any doubt.

Many hours later, Chertov stumbled into the abandoned apartment, and 340 could hear his demented, triumphant laughter, proclaiming some great victory that had not even come to pass.

"At last…" he hissed, in-between his obscene cackles, "at last…it begins…"


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Wait hasn't been as long this time, as renovation of the house is starting to wind down. This will be the last buffer chapter before the big climax, and it's totally focused on Renton and Eureka. It's mostly fluff, but also has an important hurdle in their relationship. Hopefully you all will enjoy. Big thanks go to Shashandra7.0 for helping me plan out and write this chapter. It's been a big challenge, since this is the first time I've written a chapter like this, so hopefully I've pulled it off. Read and review as always.**

**One last thing to note as well: Recently my book has been picked up by a publisher and is now available on Kindle! You can purchase it for viewing by visiting my profile and clicking the highlighted link. Thanks to everyone who made this possible.**

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**Chapter Nineteen**

**June 5****th****, 1943**

**Sacramento, California, USA**

Surprisingly, the Cypress Hotel wasn't too expensive, much to Renton's relief. He only had enough funds to pay for four days; any longer would leave him deep in debt. The hotel room was also very comfortable for the price. It was of modest size with two double beds with floral linens and a matching sofa in the corner. Next to the sofa was a large radio, practically the size of his icebox back home, tuned into a local music station playing a lilting tune. Further to the front door was the closet where both his and Eureka's bags were stowed, along with all of their clothes. Opposite it was a door leading into the bathroom, currently closed and locked. On an oak wood table next to the sofa sat an array of candies and treats as a compliment from the concierge. However, it came with a price tag for each and every item. And for that reason, Renton refused to go anywhere near it.

Instead, he lay on top of the soft bed, dressed only in a clean white shirt and new red boxers. All he could hear was the running of water in the bathroom, the gentle humming of Eureka, and the calming music from the radio. Resting his head on the soft pillow, his green eyes gazed up to the fleur-de-lis patterned ceiling in a thoughtful daze. He wanted to unwind and relax so desperately. It felt like months since he felt so refreshed and at peace. Even though the threat of assassination had not completely dissipated, he was at least comforted by the fact that Chertov and whoever else was working with him could not find him…or Eureka.

Eureka…

Though they had arrived only yesterday, he still had not come out about what happened on the night before his birthday. The night of the third assassination. The night when he stayed in Jane's house.

Looking back on it, he never should have accepted Jane's offer. He would have been better off taking chances alone in the house, or paying for a night in a local fleabag hotel. At least then he would not have had to contend with Jane's advances. How could he have been so blind and naive to not realize just what was unfolding before him? True, Jane had been a kind friend, a supportive bulwark when he needed her, but he never guessed the full extent of her feelings. When this was over, Renton thought, he needed to have a serious talk with her, lest their friendship be dashed on the rocks.

Was it even possible to save it?

He willed the grim possibility away, and tried to focus on the positive. Renton had a chance to make things right. An opportunity lay before to finally bond closer with Eureka. He had missed her greatly, with his mind being focused on assassins breathing down his neck. Their relationship had clearly suffered under the immense stress placed on him and her. A change of scenery had brightened the mood, and her too. Ever since they arrived in Sacramento, the love of his life acted differently. She was more…lively…flirtatious. She blushed more often, gave him a charmingly shy smile, whispered sweet nothings in his ear while on the train or in the taxi cab.

Perhaps it was all just in his head. He still felt fatigued from this whole ordeal, after all. And who wouldn't be after three separate attempts at assassination? It was still a mystery to him how they managed to track him down to Jane's house that fateful night. One managed to violate her home, effortlessly deflect gunfire, and then attack him and her. How on earth did that girl manage it?

While Renton mused and tried to sleep, Eureka had just finished drying off from a refreshing shower in the bathroom. It felt like ages since she felt so rejuvenated. It felt like ages since she could truly be with Renton, now that she thought of it. From the moment they stepped off the train, she grabbed at every opportunity to be closer to him, to feel comfort by his side and in his embrace. As long as they were away, she thought, they should try to be merry. After all, they _were_ on vacation.

For that reason, she immediately grabbed the small paper bag that sat on the marble counter. It was the same bag Anemone had given her when she left the apartment on Renton's birthday. She had been in contact with her over the phone, trying to get some good advice on what to do now that she and her beau were out of harm's way…for the time being, at least. Anemone reminded her about the bag, and to use every content inside it.

When she opened it, she found the same baby blue nightgown Anemone gave to her that fateful night. Not just that, but there were also some additional adornments and accessories. With a deep breath, and a look of determination and hope on her face, Eureka put on the garment once again, and stepped out to greet her beloved.

He lay on his side faced away from her, trying to sleep and finding a way to resolve diplomatically all the troubles that lay before him. While he and Eureka were here, they had to make this enjoyable. What all could they do while here? There were the Old Sacramento settlements and Sutter's Fort, both dating back to the Gold Rush. The Capitol Building also housed some interesting exhibits of state history. Of course, that was neglecting to mention all the cafes, theaters, and dance halls they could frequent. The possibilities seemed infinite.

"Oh, Renton…" called a familiar voice in a sing-song tone.

Renton's train of thought was derailed by the silvery voice that beckoned him. He turned over to face the bathroom.

"Yes, Eure…ka?"

What Renton saw next made his sharp green eyes widen to the size of saucers and his jaw almost drop to the floor. His entire body froze, his face turning red like a ripe strawberry.

The girl skipped out of the bathroom, twirling around in her nightgown like a giddy schoolgirl. . Blushing a soft shade of pink, and her lips curled in a gentle yet seductive smile.

Eureka had revealed to him an alluring, charming and seductive nightgown, baby blue in color. The gown had no sleeves to speak of and reached down to her thighs, the hem embroidered with frills. Along with her showy gown, she also wore a gold choker necklace and a gold hairclip adorned with a flower.

"How do I look?" she asked, winking at him teasingly.

The young 17-year-old felt his temperature rise and sweat pour from his brow, and was suddenly pressing down on his boxers. Eureka had always seemed meek, shy, and somewhat reserved when it came to matters of courtship before now. Ever since they were considered official, however, she grew increasingly open in affection. Never before did Renton truly appreciate just how truly attractive, stunning, _ravishing_, the girl was in front of him, as she advanced step by sauntering step.

Eureka smiled triumphantly as he continually stammered, failing to make a basic sentence and instead losing himself in her beauty. She had a feeling she was going to enjoy this particular night.

Climbing onto the bed, Eureka gently pecked him on the neck, and turned his face to hers. Renton blinked for a moment, and in the split second his eyes were closed, thought he saw a hint of blonde, a flash of blue. No, he would_ not _think of her right now. Not when he had a better person, a better companion in front of him.

"What's the matter?" she asked, smiling mischievously. "Cat got your tongue?"

"U-um…w-w-w-well…I…!"

"Or is what I'm wearing too much for you? I could always change back if you'd like."

"N-no, it's not that. It's just…!"

She gently stroked his cheek, as she positioned herself on top of him without straddling him. He opened his mouth, but she stopped him with a light touch from the tip of her finger.

"Just relax, darling. I won't bite."

At her words, he blinked his eyes again, and could plainly see her face. The same flowing blonde hair. The striking, seductive blue eyes. The enticing smile that seemed to beg for him.

"Ja—!"

Renton caught himself just short of uttering her name, the name of that one girl that caused him so much shame. In a mixture of anxiety and fear, he grabbed at Eureka's wrists, stopping her from going any further than she already had. Eureka, startled by his swift and strong grip on her arms, shrieked.

"R-Renton, you're hurting me!"

He immediately released her, feeling even more guilty than before.

"I'm sorry…"

Renton shook his head, cursing himself for thinking of Jane when he ought to be thinking of Eureka, and Eureka alone. Jane had practically seduced her way into his heart again before he could pull himself back. Eureka had almost replicated Jane's movements perfectly, but not enough that it was impossible for Renton to decipher both of them. Eureka Novikova was soothing, gentle, teasing. Jane Hart was passionate, feral, aggressive. Eureka looked to him with concern, and it was clear to her something was weighing heavily on him.

"Is something wrong, Rentoshka?"

The boy sat up. He breathed deeply, knowing that try as he might, there was no way out of what he had to do. He had to clear the air right here and now, lest the truth be found out later and their relationship take a turn for the worse. A hard lump grew in his throat, and he was almost choking from anxiety. Somehow, he managed to swallow it, and form words that would hopefully set him on the path to redemption.

"Eureka," Renton said in as stern a voice as he could muster, "there's something I should tell you. It's about what happened on the night of the third attack."

"You mean when you came to Anemone's apartment?"

He nodded, sullenly.

"Da. When I came to the apartment, I told you and Anemone that I was staying in a spare room Jane offered me, and when the assassin came, I rescued her. It's not quite the whole story."

The ash blonde 17-year-old inhaled deeply and continued, bracing himself for what was the hardest narrative he ever had to tell.

"I couldn't sleep, and Jane offered me to sleep in her room. I hated the idea, but I decided to go with her. While I was there, I told her everything that was weighing on me. The paranoia…the fears of death…everything. She comforted me at first, but then…"

He stopped for a moment, fearing her reaction to what truly happened next. She, however, was anxious to know what troubled him so greatly.

"But then what?" Eureka pressed.

"Then…before I even knew what was happening, she tried to seduce me."

Eureka was left speechless. She lifted herself off of him, and sat up, soaking in the shock at the revelation of what Jane had tried to do to him. Never before did she realize that Jane held those feelings for him. In her interactions with Jane, she never once showed any affection beyond mere friendship; Eureka never suspected her of anything until now. As she thought of it, she realized just what a huge threat Jane posed to her. She was slightly older, and possibly had a more mature figure than Eureka. A tidal wave of emotions crashed through her consciousness, each rising in intensity and stacking on each other. They left a high, unstable tower, waiting to come crashing down. Anger. Betrayal. Confusion. Hatred. Insecurity.

Her snow grey eyes slowly contorted into a soft glare.

"Renton…" she said sternly.

"Yes?"

"Do you remember what I said to you on your birthday? About not keeping secrets between us?"

"Yes," he said, ashamedly. "Yes, I do."

"Why didn't you tell me the truth from the beginning?" she asked, listlessly.

"Because I…" Renton said hesitantly.

Eureka's glare grew sharper.

"Because why?"

"Because I was almost killed, Eurekasha!" he spluttered, trying his best to make her understand. "I was too overwhelmed with everything to tell you. As wrong as it was, I just couldn't say anything until now."

"And how do I know you didn't enjoy what Jane Hart tried to do to you?!" Eureka countered, her voice cracking, laced with anger and sadness.

Renton almost jolted at the allegation. To hear her, the one true love of his life, call into question his feelings for her felt demoralizing. It was akin to a hard punch in the stomach.

"I swear I'd never—!"

"She's very pretty!" she continued, her lips trembling. "Prettier than I am! She has curves in all the right places, doesn't she?!"

Her entire body shook with the violence of an earthquake, failing to contain her emotions.

"You can't have two women in your life, Rentoshka. I saw you first, long before you befriended her!"

"I know that. That's why I stopped her before she did anything."

The glare subsided, and her features softened. He heard a small gasp of surprise from her, as her body suddenly froze. Renton was so lost in his own guilt that he almost forgot to mention it. Thank God, he thought, that he did. Hopefully, he still had a chance to make things right with her. Even if it was a long, arduous trail before they could start over fresh, he at least had to let her know how he could never go through with it. He could never turn his back on her. He could never abandon her for another. Renton would rather die a thousand deaths than see Eureka fall into despair from his own mistakes.

"You…stopped her?" Eureka repeated, her eyes watering.

"Yes, I did. I told her it wouldn't be fair to you. It's not right, what I did. I admit that fully."

"Renton…"

Fearing his chance at absolution slipping away, he gently took her by her shoulders. Eureka could see plainly the festering guilt in his sharp green eyes, eating away at him as acid corrodes steel. She felt his heavy burden on his soul as her shoulders were weighed down by his hands. It didn't take her long to realize he was being sincere, and he was disgusted with himself. She knew him far too well to recognize every word from him as truth.

"Listen to me, Eurekasha," Renton pleaded. "You're the one person I love in this world. Ever since I boarded that train five years ago, I never thought of anyone else but you. You make my life brighter, more livable. Every time I'm with you, I feel at peace, like I can go on despite all the horrible things in this world. Honestly, that night…I wish I could have been with you. That was all my fault. If I hadn't accepted Jane's offer, none of this would have happened. I made a terrible mistake staying with her, and an even more terrible mistake not telling you the truth. I'm sorry…and I promise it won't _ever_ happen again."

"Vyerna1?"

"Da, moya lyubov2."

Any other girl would be apprehensive, perhaps even distrustful. But while battles raged in Eureka's head over the many eye-opening shocks Renton had divulged, a single voice rang out. Instantly, when things seemed their darkest, and when their romance seemed to be on the rocks and on the verge of failure, she remembered Anemone's calming advice. Words that proved how much one loved the other, and how far devotion would go.

"_You have to be there for him."_

Eureka embraced Renton tightly, and he immediately broke down in tears of shame and joy. Shame for holding back and almost sabotaging their bond. Joy for receiving clemency from her and a chance at redemption. She was almost angry at herself for doubting Renton, far more than she could ever be angry at him for taking part in the act, or even at Jane for seducing him. But in her lifetime, in all her tribulations and experiences with Renton, she knew deep down he was a faithful, sincere soul, who would never dream of intentionally hurting her. Just as he had given her sanctuary in this new land, Eureka vowed to herself not to turn him away. Despite what had transpired, she would not let Jane Hart deter her. She would not lose Renton, not so soon after he came back to her. Not so soon after she finally came to terms with her feelings for him.

They had been through far too much to have a fallout now.

She whispered words of forgiveness in his ear, while he continually pleaded apology after apology, as if confessing to a priest. Her anger had subsided, thanks to his sincerity, but Eureka could not help but feel insecure. Compared to Jane Hart, or even Anemone Doolittle, she felt inferior.

At the same time, however, she felt a rush of nostalgia from this moment. For she remembered how, back in their youths, she also had a rival for Renton's affections.

Natasha Badanova, her old friend and classmate.

She stifled a laugh at the thought of all her battles with Natasha over Renton. Holland joked at one point how Renton almost turned the two of them into enemies. Of course, when Renton left for the first time, Natasha gradually lost interest and found someone in Petya Sokolov, the brave thrill seeker, and a member of their circle of friends. Still, even though they were rivals, neither Natasha nor Eureka ever attempted what Jane almost did with Renton. They were still children, after all; but they also saw each other in a more benevolent light, not as an enemy to be destroyed utterly.

Jane, however, seemed entirely different from Natasha.

Once this ordeal was over, she resolved, Jane had to be confronted on this matter. She had to plant her flag on her territory, and set a boundary. It was such a shame, too, as Eureka long thought Jane was a girl who could be trusted. A girl she could call her friend.

»»»»»

**The next day**

The remainder of the night was tense for the both of them. Despite Eureka's forgiveness, Renton still felt somewhat guilty for acting out of emotion and stress on that night. He wanted desperately to patch up the relationship for the better. Neither wanted to lose the other, especially not to romantic entanglements or a brutal, ongoing war.

In the early hours of the morning, when Renton was still fast asleep, Eureka had awaken. It was a rare feat for her, as normally Renton would have to practically shake her with the force of a paint mixer to wake her up. She had to consult someone for some good relationship advice. Someone who had managed to guide her to forcing Renton's hand, and forming the bond they had now. The bond she desperately wanted mended.

She picked up the phone and was immediately greeted by a voice.

"_Operator."_

"Operator, connect to the Doolittle residence. Bellforest."

"_One moment, please."_

She received a busy signal, indicating to her the phone was ringing on the other end. Eureka sincerely hoped the girl would be up at this hour. Advice for what to do and where to go was sorely needed. Sure enough, the phone line clicked, and Eureka suppressed a laugh at the groggy tired voice on the other end.

"_He…Hello?"_

"Hi, Anemone. It's Eureka. Did I wake you?"

"_Ugh…that depends. What time is it?"_

Eureka looked at the bedside clock.

"Nine thirty."

"_Mmmh…you didn't wake me. Much. So how's Sacramento?"_

"It's nice, I suppose," she said meekly.

Eureka wasn't so sure if it was right to rack Anemone's brain with a question like this. True, she had faced a rival in Natasha long ago, but it was when they were children, and it never reached tensions like this. On the other end of the line, she could hear Anemone's apprehension.

"_Is something the matter?"_

"Oh no, of course not," Eureka lied.

Anemone instantly saw through the veil.

"_Eureka Novikova,"_ Anemone said sternly, _"something is definitely wrong with you. I can hear it in your voice."_

The young girl didn't respond. After last night's revelation, she was still in a degree of shock. How could she tell Anemone of what had transpired? What would she do after learning the terrible truth of that night?

"_Come on,"_ Anemone entreated, _"talk to me. I'm your friend, aren't I?"_

Indeed, Anemone had been a steadfast and helpful friend for half a year now. It wasn't fair for Eureka to keep her in the dark about her troubles or what had happened, especially since Jane Hart now was involved in all of this. Perhaps she could hold some sway over her. After a few silent moments of hesitation, Eureka relented. She needed Anemone's support to repair their damaged love.

Eureka restated everything Renton had told her about what happened that night, and what had truly transpired between him and Jane. She relived each moment, saw her enticing gaze, sensed her aggressive hands prying at his clothes, and felt all the agony and torment he did in that moment, and in the days after. It took a while, what seemed like hours to fully explain, but Eureka managed to recall everything of importance. A heavy fog of tension hung over the two young ladies conversing on the phone, with Renton still silently sleeping on the bed next to Eureka. How he had not woken up yet, she would never know.

"_My God,"_ Anemone said at last. _"Sounds like you have a romantic rival, Eureka."_

As much as she wished it weren't so, the young Russian girl knew she was right. Jane posed a huge hurdle to the love she and Renton shared.

"I still can't believe it," she admitted. "I never suspected her of that for a minute. It gave a bad dream the other night, just thinking about it."

"_If that happened to my Dominic,"_ Anemone put in, _"I'd have clobbered her for even touching him! Dominic too, depending on how deeply he was involved. But there's no way in hell I'd let her get away with it!"_

Eureka winced at the mental image of Anemone in a comically disastrous brawl with Jane. In her interactions with the redhead, she always seemed…well…feisty and hot-blooded.

"_So how did you feel when Renton told you?"_

"Well, angry and shocked, of course. But Renton poured out his heart to me; I know he did, Anemone. He stopped Jane before she could do anything more to him. So…I forgave him."

"_That's a relief,"_ Anemone said happily. _"It would've been such a shame if you two had broken up then and there."_

"Anemone, I have no idea what to do now!" Eureka grieved, begging for advice from her friend. "How can I fix all of this? What should I do to get back to the way things used to be?"

There was a moment of silence as Anemone pondered over what could be done. However, her resourceful redheaded friend came up with something in a flash.

"_Why don't you go on a date?"_

Eureka tilted her head in slight bewilderment.

"A date?" she repeated.

"_Yeah!"_ Anemone chirped excitedly. _"You know, spend some quality time with him. Go out to the movies, eat at a nice restaurant, things like that! There must be plenty to do out in Sacramento, isn't there?"_

"I'm sure there is…"

"_So go out with him. A day out should help him get his mind off of all of that. It'd do you a world of good, Eureka."_

"Are you sure, Anemone?"

"_Absolutely. I go out on dates with Dominic all the time; it's loads of fun. Just try it."_

A bright and eager smile came back to Eureka's face, and she nodded, elatedly. After all, she thought, they had never much time to do anything since this business with assassins had started. Now that they were safe, they ought to take advantage of it. She had missed him terribly, and was sure that a day out with him would change him in an instant.

"Thank you so much, Anemone. It means a lot."

»»»»»

Before their date even started, while Renton got ready in the bathroom, the radio was filled with tragic news of ongoing violence in Los Angeles. The "Zoot Suit Riots," as they were being called now, had gotten out of control. Servicemen and young Mexican gangsters clashed regularly at nightclubs and dance floors. There was word the Army would become involved soon. Outside of the violence in their own backyard, newspapers still carried words of ongoing bombings, battles, and resulting casualties throughout the dark world they lived in.

Japan struggled to hold the Pacific and control China.

Europe still lay in darkness under the Nazi jackboot.

The Soviet Union fought on.

Everything Renton and Eureka had been through was nothing but tragedy, strife, and suffering. They had lost friends, family, and most of their innocence to find each other and find comfort. Something was needed to brighten their moods, provide beacons in a world of darkness and despair.

While looking through a local newspaper, Renton found a trio of films playing at a nearby theater. _The More the Merrier_, a comedy film about the current housing shortage. _Shadow of a Doubt_, a recent thriller from Alfred Hitchcock. _Mission to Moscow_, an period piece set in the Soviet Union just before the war.

"I like the sound of the first one," Eureka commented. "It would dispel some of the gloom."

"All right," Renton agreed, smiling. "We'll go to that one, then."

With the title agreed upon and a viewing time chosen, the young teenaged couple left the hotel and made off for the theater.

The summer had definitely come, and was felt more acutely in Sacramento than in Bellforest. At least back home, they had the shadow of the headlands and tall mountains. In Sacramento, there were no valleys or overlying hills of any kind. The level of heat was exponential, and both of them dressed accordingly.

Renton had not even bothered with his trench coat, and instead wore a loose-fitting white button-down shirt tucked into brown knickerbockers. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms exposed to the sun. Over the shirt was a lightweight brown vest in which he carried his watch and wallet. He had also swapped out his black socks for white ones to lessen the effects of the heat. Eureka likewise was clad in white, wearing a one-piece A-line dress with puffy sleeves and matching high heels. She kept her gold hairclip adorned with a white flower, giving her an earthly quality. He noted in his mind how strikingly beautiful she was in white, more so than in her traditional baby blue. Like an angel displaced in this mortal world, with all its evils and pitfalls.

As they approached the theater, Eureka felt her high heel become stuck in something, bringing her walk to an abrupt halt. She looked down to see what was the cause of her trouble, and found that she had unconsciously walked over a street ventilation grate, and one of her high heels had become stuck in the grate. She quickly tried to pull out the shoe but then, at the worst possible moment imaginable, it happened.

She felt a faint, torrid huff of steam creeping up near her legs from below. Suddenly, the skirt of her white dress started floating upward. Gradually every inch of what should have been concealed was revealed as the skirt rose higher and higher like a stage curtain. She looked to see what an embarrassing situation she was in.

"AHH!"

Eureka let out a short shriek and pressed her hands down on her skirt, preventing the steam from exposing herself any further.

"Eureka…?!"

Renton turned, only to almost have a glimpse of his girlfriend's undergarments. He immediately turned back around, trying to play off the mortifying scene nonchalantly. Fortunately for the two of them, the steam stopped a few seconds later, and luckily for Eureka, there was no one else around to witness her in such a helpless position, sans Renton. She walked over and lightly took his hand, leading him on to the ticket booth. The mood had dampened slightly due to that mishap, and she clearly felt humiliated. She whispered meekly in his ear as he approached the counter.

"Did you see anything?"

Renton blushed, but only told her the truth; he could do nothing else with her, and he'd be damned if this outing was ruined over something like this.

"No, I didn't."

"Do you promise?"

"Cross my heart," he said, making a cutting motion across his sternum.

Eureka said nothing, only tacitly accepting it. Though in perfect honesty, she would not have minded it as much if it was Renton. She felt more comfortable with him than anyone on this earth. She knew him inside and out, and could see through any facade he put forth. He didn't need to say anything more to her as he paid for the ticket, and escorted her inside. She only smiled, laughing at his attempts at humor and finally feeling at ease. A feeling she had missed for a very long time.

_The More The Merrier_ quickly became one of Renton's favorite films that day. The lighthearted romantic comedy, which poked fun at the housing shortage as well as the male shortage during wartime, made for an enjoyable time. Eureka could barely contain her laughter throughout the whole film; she laughed so much Renton feared they might cause a disturbance and be kicked out. It never came to that, thankfully, as the two lovers left the theater laughing together.

"Such a romantic story," Eureka commented, wiping away a tear of joy. "Jean Arthur made a fantastic performance there too. If that doesn't win her an Oscar, nothing will."

"I agree. I really enjoyed it myself. Needed those laughs badly."

"We both did, Renton. Believe me."

Eureka smiled expectedly as she took her beau's hand.

"So, where to next?"

Renton pondered the question for a moment.

"Well, being in that theater for so long really made me hungry. What say we head to a cafe and get a bite?"

"Sounds great. Lead the way!"

Heading back in the direction of the hotel, Renton skinned his eyes for any potentially satisfying eatery while enduring the enthusiastic cries of Eureka, pulling him along as she admired the sights and sounds of Sacramento. The cacophony of passing automobiles. The distant chords of a jazz band from a dance club. Even the whistling of wind as it passed through the corridors of high-reaching skyscrapers excited her. It reminded her of her once majestic Stalingrad, proud and strong, before the war brought the city to her knees, and tore down everything with it.

Sure enough, they passed by a cafe that suited their fancy. Truthfully, Renton had to explain why it would suit her fancy more than his. The cafe was the Boudin Bakery, a statewide chain known for specializing in sourdough bread-based foods. At the word "sourdough," Eureka's grey eyes lit up like a neon sign with delight. Even long after she had sampled a loaf of his bread on the ship to freedom, she was still enamored with the taste. A restaurant that made all manner of foods with sourdough swept her off her feet, and sent her bursting through the entrance doors. Renton could barely hold her back as she sprinted to the cashier, taking advantage of the light business.

The cashier was a tan-skinned girl about Eureka's age, with brown shoulder-length hair and big sky blue eyes. She greeted them both casually.

"Welcome to Boudin Bakery. How can I help you today?"

Before Renton could even get a word out for what he wanted, Eureka enthusiastically listed off everything she wanted to add to her palate. Tomato soup in a bread bowl. Chicken Caesar salad in a bread bowl. She even inquired if the bread sculptures, shaped like lobsters and crabs, were on sale as well. Much to her dismay, they weren't. Renton feared her selections might leave him broke. Well, no matter, he thought. At least she was happy. A feeling he sorely missed from her.

He was more modest in his selection. He ordered a traditional burger served in a garlic butter-glazed baguette with potato chips and a Coca-cola. Eureka, wishing she could order that, almost regretted ordering her large array of food as he paid for everything and led her to a booth, next to a street side window.

As they waited for their food, Eureka struck up a conversation. It felt like ages since she last spoke with him, as this business of assassination and constantly being in fear for one's life had taken its toll on him.

"How are you feeling, Rentoshka?"

"Better," Renton said, simply. "I really needed this day out."

"So have I, Rentoshka. I've missed you so much."

Renton raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Missed me? What do you mean?"

"Ever since this whole thing started, I've felt like you've…well…avoided me. Like you never wanted to tell me what was troubling you so."

Renton felt terribly guilty at that, as he knew it was all too true. He never wanted burden her with his problems.

"I'm sorry about that, Eurekasha. Honestly, I just never wanted to trouble you. We risked our lives getting out of one horror. I didn't want to drag you into another."

"Renton," Eureka said sternly, "part of being in love means you share your life with the other. Even if it's filled with pain or anxiety, it shouldn't matter. I love you, and no matter what happens, I'll always do my best to support you. I said I'd never turn you away, didn't I?"

He smiled, remembering her desperate words, her entreating eyes, and her begging voice that called for him to turn to her in his times of need.

"Yes, you did."

"So come to me," she whispered, reaching her hand for his across the table. "Talk to me. Trust me. There will always be times when you need to rely on others for support, and for that, I am always here. I promise."

"Then all I ask is one thing, Eureka."

"And that is?"

He leaned over, barely an hair's breadth away from her face, his eyes perfectly in line with hers. Even after Chertov and his hooligans were gone, not all their problems would be over. This war would go on, of that he was certain. There would be a time when he would have to go out again to save another. He had left not only her behind in that summer of 1938, but countless others in his long trek across the Old Continent. If he would ever have to leave again, would she be behind him?

"Eureka, I'm sure you know, but I didn't just meet you in my travels across Europe. There are so many other people I left behind. Jacques…Petya…Natasha…Anatole…your own brother Vladimir…surely many more I'm forgetting. There might be a time when I have to go abroad again to save them. If that happens, and if this war demands more sinning from me, will you follow me? If the war turns me into a demon, will you be a demon too?"

He thought for sure it would take time for her to deliberate, to truly evaluate what it may cost her to be so devoted to him. But in truth, he expected her answer to come as quickly as it did. In the end, that was the kind of girl she was. Forever faithful, forever loving, to the very end.

"Absolutely, Renton," she said nodding without hesitation. "Wherever you go, I will always follow."

He didn't need anything else from her, and made it clear as he pulled her into a gentle kiss. Both felt their souls connected with a spark as their lips touched, and it was the affirmation both needed. Even though the end of Chertov would not be the end of their troubles, they at least had the firm, irrefutable knowledge that one would be beside the other, for this trial and for the ones to come. For the first time in what seemed like a long time, things slowly were becoming right again between the young lovers. The contract between them remained in good standing, and nothing would break it. Not Chertov. Not Jane Hart. Not even this awful war.

A blonde-haired waiter came up with their food, and cleared his throat, making his presence known to them.

The two teenagers broke apart with a startled jump, almost shaking the table. Both of them blushed in embarrassment as the waiter set their respective dishes down.

"Enjoy your meal, Romeo and Juliet," he said jokingly as he walked away.

Renton growled softly in irritation while Eureka could only giggle. Even when they were official, Renton hated being called out on it. Holland did it to him constantly, and refused to let him live it down. Dominic would always congratulate him in jest for "joining the club" as it were. And now Jane Hart had become an aggressive and determined rival.

Jane…

The name struck him with the sting of a thousand needles as he bit into his burger. He needed to resolve this with her when this storm had passed. Clearly there was something about her he had missed right from the start. How could he have been so blind to her advances? Why didn't he say anything sooner? Why couldn't he just have been honest with himself, with her, and with Eureka before all of this began?

Would it even have made a difference?

He looked up at Eureka, who was ravenously consuming her salad. In fact, she seemed less interested in the salad as opposed to the bread bowl. Renton suppressed a laugh at the sight of her so focused and absorbed with her food. She struck the image of a chipmunk, stuffing its cheeks with nuts to store for the winter. When Chertov was out of the picture, he mused, he would have to find a bakery to stock up on sourdough bread. Clearly, next to Renton himself, nothing came between her and her bread.

After about an hour and a half of lunch and enjoying each other's company, the two returned to the hotel for a much-needed respite. From when they entered the lobby, to riding the elevator, to reentering their quarters, the aura around them had significantly brightened. Renton finally felt like himself again, a feeling he had sorely missed. Eureka felt comfortable enough to be flirtatious, lively and teasing with him, even if for a few moments. They spent the late afternoon hours simply lying on their shared bed, hand in hand, listening to the soft music from the radio. To them, it was like being on honeymoon.

"Thank you, Renton," Eureka whispered in his ear.

"For what, Eurekasha?"

"For taking me out of Bellforest. So we could spend time alone together."

"I'd never leave you alone there. Your life was threatened too. But really, I should be thanking you…forgiving me after what happened with Jane…"

Renton darted his eyes away, still feeling an inkling of guilt. Eureka was quick to dispel it, as she turned her head towards him.

"I could never hold a grudge against you, Rentoshka. Not for anything."

"Eureka…"

Feeling an urge to finally close the gap he felt had grown between them, Renton softly placed his lips on hers. However, he wasn't content with just her lips, as his kisses traveled downward to her neck, handling her with care like a delicate rose. Eureka moaned softly, her heart pounding, and she thought it would burst out; but even if it did, she would not have cared. She could have died right then and would have been happy. Renton looked back at his love, and hugged her close to him, taking in her scent, which smelled faintly of spring flowers. She tightened the embrace, resting her head on his broad shoulder.

At long last, their bond was mended, stronger, and greater than before.

1 Truly?

2 Yes, my love.


	20. Chapter 20

******A/N: The wait has been long again, and I apologize. We just finished renovation of the house, and it was the most exhausting thing ever. I spent almost all night trying to write this out to meet a two-week deadline. Wouldn't you know, I met it by a hair? Anyway, this is the first part of a two-parter climax. Chertov's confrontation with Renton comes next. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

**June 7****th****, 1943**

**Mill Valley, California, USA**

Nightfall had settled over the town, and things were beginning to wind down for Anemone Doolittle. Her mother was out again on a night shift at the arms factory, and it was evident she wouldn't be back until very late. When she called up Dominic to see if he would come over and spend the night, he had a bit of reservation. Who wouldn't, especially after all the troublesome attacks and fears of assault by the Pachucos?

The Zoot Suit Riots had finally provoked a response in Los Angeles. The command staffs of the Marine Corps and Navy declared the city off-limits to all servicemen, who were now confined to sit in their barracks for shore leave. Even as the riots were finally being brought under control in the south, tensions quickly swept up north. There were fears of copycat riots by Mexican gangs in San Francisco, Oakland, San Jose, and even as far north as Sacramento. In Mill Valley, the fears were keenly felt as the militia was stretched thin on high alert, juggling with searching for Renton's assassins and keeping tabs on the Pachucos, and the nighttime streets almost clogged with patrols.

Dominic arrived just as it was getting dark, coming back from a full day's work of volunteering at the United States Army Base at the Presidio in San Francisco. It was a job he had performed in the summer since he started high school and with much enthusiasm on his part. His assignments ran the full gambit from compiling munitions to writing reports as officers dictated. The Army was a way of life for Dominic, combined with the constant instruction he received as part of Junior ROTC, made him a ripe candidate for enlistment. Anemone fully supported his venture, and even accompanied him on some days. However the paranoia of recent months had spread to her like an infection, and kept her in the flat.

"Hey, honey," Dominic greeted casually as he embraced Anemone. "Did I keep you waiting long?"

"Nope," Anemone returned, kissing him on the cheek. "Was just about to break out some Cokes and listen to the radio. Want to join me?"

"Sure thing. Could use a Coke after work today."

Dominic sauntered into the apartment, and immediately plopped onto a nearby floral-patterned sofa. The radio in the corner, about the size of a chest of drawers, was illuminated and tuned into a station playing slow dance music.

"You want something to eat, Dom?" Anemone called from the kitchen.

"What do you have?"

"Got some sourdough bread we can share."

"Let's have it, then."

Anemone joined her boyfriend on the sofa and split between them a small loaf of sourdough bread, thoughtfully chewing in sync with the chords from the radio. Despite being together for more than two years, there was still a cloud of apprehension that hung over them. The recent attacks had hit far too close to home, and the riots had everyone on edge. And that was to say nothing of a war that dragged on, whose outcome was still in question, and whose end was still nowhere in sight.

"How was work?" Anemone asked.

"Tense," he said matter-of-factly as he bit off a piece of bread. "Captain Banks had me go over munitions today. Said he thought they may have to use 'em if things went south in the city."

"Went south? What do you mean?"

"I mean there's talk of them Zoot Suiters in San Francisco thinkin' of stirrin' up trouble too. They're sending out a regiment tomorrow to keep order."

"I really hope nothing comes of it, though," Anemone replied with worry in her voice.

"So do I, hon," Dominic consoled her, gently holding her head to his sternum. "So do I."

There was a brief moment of silence, as both of them remembered the terrible state their mutual friend Renton was in merely days ago. True, he was out of harm's way. True, there was little chance whoever was after him could find him now. But for how long could he pull the wool over his pursuers' eyes? There would come a time where both he and Eureka would have to return, and potentially face the cloak-and-dagger business head-on. The militia was doing their best to stop any such activity from occurring, with patrol after patrol and extended night watches daily. Curfew was also more strictly enforced than usual. Fear had spread over the town like a thick blanket of fog rolling from the mountains.

"You hear anything from Renton or Eureka lately?" Dominic asked quietly.

"I spoke with Eureka yesterday. Found out something that was pretty shocking."

"Like what?"

"You know that British girl, Jane Hart?"

"What about her?"

Anemone hesitated, as the consequences of releasing the truth seemed almost too difficult to bear. As much as Eureka was her newfound friend, Jane Hart was also their classmate. Granted, the signs of Jane's affection for Renton were evident long before Eureka came into the picture, but now the dynamic had changed. She could still remember how Eureka sounded so distraught over the telephone about the entire incident, and it was evident how this had affected her. Anemone was not one to gossip normally, but she always had an ear for politics of the classroom and talk of the soda shop. She could only imagine what the results would be if this story got out farther than it should.

"Anemone, I know somethin's wrong," Dominic pressed. "I can see it in your eyes."

She sighed, knowing that the truth would not be kept from him as much as she tried. It was something she ought to be accustomed with by now, having been together for almost two years.

"Jane tried to seduce Renton."

At those words, Dominic's jaw practically dropped, and his gunmetal grey eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. Jane had long shown signs of loving Renton, but this had completely changed the nature of the game.

"Are…are you serious?" Dominic asked disbelievingly. "I mean, I knew she liked him, but…that's just crazy! When did this happen?"

"Well, it was a few days ago and—"

Anemone's explanation was cut short by a sudden knock on the apartment door. But it was well past curfew by this time; there surely would be no person wandering the street so late at night; they'd catch the suspicion of a patrol! She immediately felt something was amiss as Dominic stood up from the sofa, approached the door and looked through the peep hole. His reaction was one of quiet surprise.

"Guess who," he said ruefully.

His eye gazed upon Jane Hart standing right outside the door, awaiting a response from within. Frazzled strands of her golden blonde hair hung in her face without the aid of her pink hair ribbon. She wore a lightweight ocean blue dress and matching shoes, with white gloves on her hands. To any outside observer, one would mistake her for a displaced debutante, looking for the home where a gala ball was to be held. A lady of Windsor Castle stumbling around in the slums of Whitechapel.

Knowing full well the reason why she was here, Dominic opened the door for the British girl, and offered a kind greeting. Anemone rose up from her couch, waiting with baited breath to see why Jane had come. In truth, she should have known far before she even knocked on the door.

"Good evening," the blonde greeted quietly with her royal accent. "I hope I am not interrupting anything."

"Oh, no, Jane," Dominic refuted with a smile. "not at all. What can we do for you?"

Anemone wondered whether the smile was sincere or merely a masquerade.

"I was wondering if either you or Anemone happen to know…where Renton Thurston is now."

There was a brief silence, as Dominic, clearly seeing the pieces of the puzzle fall together, weighed his options in what she should be told. Of course, he had yet to hear the whole story from Anemone, but he knew enough about Jane to know she would cause a problem if she came to see Renton and Eureka. Just as he was about to feign ignorance, Anemone called out the blonde standing in the door.

"Why? So you can stalk him?"

The young boy moved aside, seeing the fiery luster in his girlfriend's amethyst eyes. Jane, clearly taken aback and (Anemone suspected) caught with her hand in the cookie jar, raised an eyebrow in apprehension.

"I…beg your pardon?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Jane!" Anemone spluttered angrily, frowning. "I know what you tried to do to my friend, and I don't appreciate it."

"I'm quite certain I don't know what you mean."

"I heard the whole story! About what happened that night when you and Renton were attacked! You're trying to destroy their relationship!"

Dominic only glanced at the British girl, looking like a wax work, and then back at his redheaded lover. For two years, he came to know the fiery side of Anemone Doolittle. She was often prone to sharp insults, emotional outbursts, even violence on occasion. When push came to shove, he always had to calm her when things turned ugly. It was one of those times.

"H-hey, Anemone, honey, wait a second…" Dominic interjected hesitantly.

Anemone refused to listen, and continued on her tirade, pointing an accusing finger at Jane like a lawyer in court.

"Do you have any idea what Renton had to endure to find Eureka!? He went through hell and back to find her and bring her here, and now you're trying to steal him away!"

Jane was visibly pale, and suddenly felt ill. How much had Renton told them? How did the feisty Irish girl know anything? Then again, she supposed Renton might have said everything on the night of the attack. However she knew, Jane resolved that if she did find Renton, or Eureka, for that matter, this issue had to be resolved once and for all. For now, she tried to be civil in this confrontation.

"Anemone Doolittle," Jane stated in as composed a tone she could manage, "I am not sure what you've heard, but you paint me as some kind of monster. I am _not_ as conniving as you'd like to think of me. I just wish to know Renton's whereabouts."

"No," Anemone lied, "I don't know where he is. Even if I did, there is no way in hell I'd tell you. Just stop chasing after him, Jane; he's made his choice. He chose Eureka, not you."

"I…see," Jane muttered quietly.

She looked down at her black loafers, scuffed around the edges from loose cobblestones. She had a suspicion of just how truthful Anemone was being with her. But judging by how stern, how harshly the Irish girl spoke to her, perhaps it was better to simply stop right there, before being countered with another verbal lashing. Jane didn't even want to see Renton anymore after Anemone's harsh condemnation; all she felt was the desire to return to her home.

"If that is the case, I am sorry I intruded. Goodnight."

She turned and solemnly walked away, her head hung low like a soldier walking from a blood-stained battlefield, a witness to a ghastly defeat. As the door closed with a click and a squeak of the hinges, she curled her gloved hands into fists, and ground her teeth. It was not like she was expecting much help, after all. But the truth of this matter had to be kept contained, lest a scandal occur. And in the face of this business of assassins, spies and subterfuge, Renton's survival and the capture of culprits had to be paramount. Her personal affairs with him would wait for another time, when things were quieter, and she could him…and fact the Russian girl…one-on-one. In the meantime, she resolved to herself and subconsciously to the two other members of this ongoing romantic triangle:

"I _will not _be ignored. I _will not _lose simply because they have a history."

»»»»»

In the darkness of the abandoned apartment complex, 340 was busy preparing for what she knew to be the last act of this long drama of subterfuge, intrigue and revenge. She found a stripper clip, the bullets ominously glowing like a bayonet in the moonlight. Sighing, she loaded it into the chamber of her C96, wondering to herself what would become of her…of all of them…by tomorrow.

She had to admit: Chertov must be truly desperate to get at Renton to resort to such a tortuous and slapdash strategy. Relying on gangsters was to expecting a snail to win a race with a hare, especially when they were so poorly equipped. Chertov relegated to her and her agents the tasks of finding them the necessary supplies to engage in full battle with the militia. To do that, they all had to raid a small weapons cache on the edge of town. How they managed to do so without arising an alarm was a feat in itself; it at least confirmed for her that the militia was stretched to the breaking point, and a sudden, swift attack now would be enough to create the opening Chertov so desired.

He briefed her and the others in a remarkable show of clarity and calm, laying out specifically what she, the agents, and the Pachucos had to do. Beneath the erudite explanations of strategy, the laying down of tactics and the relegation of objectives and duties, 340 knew it was all a facade. He had long given up any faith in their abilities to eliminate the target, and he was casting them aside. They were merely expendable pawns, to be used as cannon fodder while he made his way for the goal. The use of words like "diversion," "distraction," and "demonstration" were the veil behind which he concealed his true goal.

However, 340 resolved that she would not be needlessly sacrificed to fulfill his wish for revenge. She already had a plan of her own in mind to execute the following day. Something subtler, and something that would finally put an end to this madness before she would live to regret it.

"340?"

She turned around, and found exactly the person she wanted to see. 271, her only willing accomplice and co-conspirator. 271 was dressed in her civilian clothes, still donning her azure blue cloak and hood. She sat down next to her, and immediately cut to the chase. Both suspected it would be the last time they would do so.

"You ready for tomorrow?"

"As ready as I am going to be," 340 said solemnly as she locked the safety on her C96. "Are you?"

"Not sure I am, to be honest," 271 admitted, insecurely. "I don't know who I should be afraid of more: the lieutenant or those gangsters he bribed."

"Street rabble…" she muttered resentfully in agreement. "We don't need scum like them muddying up the mission."

"We can always get rid of them too," 271 suggested.

"They aren't worth it."

As she tucked away her gun in her holster, she went over the plan the two of them would simultaneously put into action…the plan that would, 340 hoped, destroy Chertov.

"What Chertov expects us to do tomorrow is to divert attention. He wants us to keep the militia occupied by stirring up trouble in town, and he is using the gangsters as a form of cover. We're expected to delay them for as long as possible. We can't let that happen."

"So what do we do?"

"At the first opportunity when you see a militiaman, 271, I want you to surrender."

271 raised an eyebrow, looking at her commanding officer with apprehension. The plan sounded so defeatist in nature. What could be gained by turning in to the very people they were supposed to help?

"What good will _that_ do us, exactly?"

"271, Chertov is expecting us to direct the militia's attention away from him and provide an opening for him to assassinate Thurston. We have to close that opening so we can catch him."

340 laid a heavy gloved hand on her shoulder.

"When you turn yourself in, I want you to tell them everything I have told you. About Chertov, the mission, what he is planning, where he is going, everything. The more we tell them and the sooner we tell it, the greater chance we have of stopping him."

"Will you turn yourself in as well?"

"When the opportunity presents itself, yes."

"What if the others try to stop me?"

"They won't; I'll set it up so they don't interfere. As for the gangsters, I can't guarantee what happens."

271 was visibly concerned about that prospect, but there was little either of them could do about it. The Pachucos were only in this for the money and for possible retribution against the militia for their brothers in Los Angeles. All either of the young agents could do was hope the power of money would be enough to keep them fighting. Either way, the fight had to be quick, and it had end the way she envisioned it.

"Everything must be perfect; as soon as we turn ourselves in, we have to move on Sacramento. Or else we'll have the blood of Renton Thurston on our hands by nightfall."

"And no one wants that."

"Too true. Listen: if anything happens to me, you're the only one who can stop Chertov. Do whatever you must to catch him."

"You talk as if your fate has already been decided, comrade," 271 reassured her. "Don't be so gloomy. You survived Stalingrad, didn't you? This would be a cakewalk for you!"

"I can only hope so, 271. I really don't have any idea what this militia is capable of."

"We shall find out everything tomorrow."

The two agents parted, as both realized they needed their sleep and all the energy they had in the morning. However, sleep would come late for them, as all were tense thinking of what would happen at the breaking of tomorrow's dawn. For 340, especially, her dreams were not of days gone by or happy memories from her youth but rather of tense future scenarios, filled with gunfire, smoke, and revenge. If anything went wrong, Renton Thurston' life could not be guaranteed. She would live out her days in guilt and shame at being complicit in his murder. And who knew what Chertov would do to all of them in any event?

This could not fail, no matter the cost.

»»»»»

**The next day**

It felt like ages since Talho had gotten a day off. Ever since Renton and Eureka had left Mill Valley, she had been charged with one wide patrol after another, skinning her eyes for suspicious activity. Unfortunately, results had been less than satisfying, outside of stirring up suspicion from the local Pachuco gangsters. She finally had a bit of time for Holland, with whom she was desperate to speak to. When she called him up on the telephone, she was so delighted to hear his heavy Slavic baritone answer her, and even more delighted to hear he was free to stop over at her place for a moment.

Beneath the facile greetings and innocent banter, Talho had something she desperately wanted off her chest, out in the open before there was no chance and any opportunity to converse further was lost. It was something Holland had taken note to avoid constantly, always saying the dangerous situation demanded their attention. Even in time of war, people still contended with their own feelings. Renton and Eureka surely didn't mull over the situation before them, worrying their days away. Why should Holland? Before anything came to pass, as she felt it might, she needed clarity. She needed…him.

Since it was her off-day, Talho dressed appropriately, as did Holland. The weather had grown incredibly hot, even by the town's standards, and her attire was made to match. Over her shoulders was a short violet jacket that barely reached to her slim waist with an upturned collar. It was unbuttoned, displaying in full her knee-length white dress, frilled at the hem and around the neckline. There was a small floral adornment where her heart resided, just barely noticeable below the tide of frills.

Holland was somewhat hesitant to be following her, as it was really the first time he had ever been in the home of a girl he liked. As he thought more of it, walking into an apartment complex, he attracted some attention from a few women, but he never found someone who he could be comfortable with. For whatever reason, however, be it his family, himself, or something else not of his understanding, none ever truly pursued him. Unlike Talho. The girl who saved him from a life of misery and privation.

"Well, here we are," Talho said cheerily as she unlocked the door to her flat.

As they walked in, Holland's blue eyes scanned the apartment. It was a very small place, with the essential furnishings he would expect from an apartment. A brown leather couch. A matching coffee table. A small bookshelf. He saw a few photographs hanging on the walls, and one in particular caught his eye.

It was a visible old picture, with three people standing in front of an elaborate Victorian two-story house. A mustachioed man with black hair, dressed in a fancy suit and tie, stood shoulder to shoulder with a young woman whose equally dark hair was worn back in a ponytail. Between and in front of the couple stood a diminutive young girl, perhaps no older than ten. The family all stared at him with strong, stern eyes, and Holland felt an urge to back away, as if they were staring into his very soul.

"Are those your parents?" he asked.

"Yes, they are. That was taken at our old home when I was about eight."

"What do you mean, 'old home?' Your parents don't live with you here?"

"No, they don't. I told you before: I'm in uniform because my parents wanted me out of the house. They gave me enough money to find a place of my own."

"I see…"

Holland was silently surprised by her reveal as Talho placed her bag on the coffee table. He could understand encouraging independence, but going so far as to send her off like this? Even his own father, for all his sternness and criticism of his wavering in what he wanted to do, never comprehended sending him away. She sat down on the leather couch, and beckoned him to join her.

"Come on, Holland," she said with a friendly grin. "The couch doesn't bite."

As he sat down, Holland noticed the immediate change in his friend…no, more than just a friend now. The grin ran away from her face and was replaced by a solemn, somber expression. He wondered what could get her to change her mood so easily.

"I had a dream last night, Holland," she told him.

Holland raised an eyebrow, wondering what this was about.

"A dream?"

Talho nodded sullenly.

"It was about you. A fight had broken out in town; don't remember what it was about, but the entire militia was called. I was fighting alongside Denisov and you were protecting me from something. Just then, a bullet whizzed by and…"

She hesitated and shuddered, fearing the boy she cared so deeply for would suspect she was falling into raving lunacy. Holland didn't change anything in his visage, simply waiting anxiously to learn what was troubling and tormenting the young private first class so.

"…you took it for me. You saved me from death. You fell to the ground and were bleeding out, very badly."

She covered one eye with her hand, sighing heavily and with fear plastered across her face. Holland's mouth hung slightly agape at the dream that so troubled her. But what came next was even more surprising.

"So you see, Holland?" she asked, her hazel eyes turning over to him. "That is why I want to know what you feel for me. I'd rather have the answer now than go through this life without knowing how you truly feel. Even if we're fighting a war, or chasing a madman around town, it doesn't mean we drop everything else. At least…_I_ don't want to."

Her hazel eyes moistened as she held him by the wrist, her grip on him almost excruciatingly tight as if he was a spirit bound to depart from the world in mere moments. Talho begged for an answer, some words or action to prove affection, to prove she didn't have to fear. A moment of silence passed between them, as Holland struggled to attain the words he so coveted, that he so desperately wanted to say to her. What on earth could he say that would assuage her dread, confirm what she wanted to know?

Now Holland truly knew Renton had been right. Admission of feelings was one of the most difficult things to do.

"I love you, Holland," Talho disclosed quietly. "All I want to know is if you do as well."

After another moment of silence, tension and pressure hanging over them both like an oncoming storm, Holland leaned over, desperate to salvage their bond before it was broken. His words hot in her ear he said.

"My regret is not being able to say it first."

She blushed as the gloves were now off and cards on the table for the two of them. Talho quietly rejoiced that all her fears and misgivings were in vain, and that she finally had someone to depend on in this town, both in her uniform and out of it. He then surprised her with a soft, reassuring kiss on the lips.

"Talho, I promise nothing will happen to me. I'm not going anywhere…and I don't want to either."

"Vyerna?"

"Da."

Holland passed the initiative to her as Talho pressed her lips to his in another kiss. However, a little more passion spilled over, as they finally released and let go of all the romantic tension kept under lock and key in the attics of their subconscious since that night in the hospital. As much as either of their brains commanded them to stop, their bodies would not respond. Instead they swam deeper into the ocean of passion, until…

_RING! RING!_

The loud ringing of a telephone startled the two young Russians, snapping them back to reality and out of the sea of passion they were drowning in moments before. Talho picked up the phone, wondering who could be calling her on her day off. Possibly her parents, checking in to see if everything was alright.

"He…Hello?"

"_Yukieva, it's Lieutenant Denisov. We have a serious problem."_

Talho stifled an exasperated groan as she buttoned her dress. Of course it would be Denisov, calling in and thereby cancelling her day off. What task did he have for her this time? An escort mission? His patrolman had called in sick? Diplomatically, she pursued inquiry, thinking it to be another menial task.

"What's wrong, sir? Did Corporal Weaver call in sick again?"

"_Stop joking around, Private First Class! If we don't act now, we may very well have a full-scale riot on our hands!"_

The mood changed as quickly as the snap of a finger. Clearly, something was horribly, horribly wrong.

"What do you mean?"

"_There's trouble at the Pathfinder Hotel on Fremont Boulevard. Get over here immediately and I'll brief you further. And Talho?"_

"Yes?"

"_Bring your weapons and ammunition. I fear you may need them."_

"Of course. At once, sir."

With that, she hung up and bolted to her closet, scavenging her M1 Garand and ammunition belt, propped up against a wall in the corner. Holland in the meantime had suspicions of what was about to play out before them.

"I get the feeling that lieutenant of yours isn't very fond of me," Holland remarked sarcastically.

"He sounded frantic on the phone," Talho replied. "Said there may be a possible riot brewing downtown. Hopefully we'll have the full picture when we get down there. Might be Chertov plotting something."

She tossed him her pistol.

"Take my 45. You're going to need it."

He nonchalantly tucked it in his pocket, before turning the tables on her and bringing the issue back to where it was, not moments before the call.

"Didn't you say that even though we're fighting a war, we shouldn't drop everything else?"

She sighed, knowing he was right. To make sure her point was known and to make sure the matter was fully resolved, she stepped closer to him, until their eyes were barely an inch away from each other. A syrupy sweet tone came back to her voice as her arm snaked around his back.

"Yes, I did say that, but there is a time and a place. When we are both ready to cross _that _line. Everything in moderation."

Holland blushed, noticing some seductiveness in his lover's voice. He averted his eyes slightly towards her enticing ones, failing to hide the blush in his face.

"You had better make it up to me when this is over."

"I will."

Talho held the teen's chin and their lips touched again gently, as she whispered a sensual implication before they made off out the door.

"And who knows? If you're lucky, you might get something _else_ besides a few kisses."

»»»»

The Pathfinder Hotel was a very swanky establishment, located on the eastern side of town. Its view of the Bay and the San Francisco skyline made it an ideal resort for tourists, and attracted all manner of well-to-do people. It seemed an unlikely place for trouble in town. And yet, as Talho and Holland approached the hotel, it was clear "trouble" was an understatement. To them, it looked like a standoff.

Studebaker troop trucks and Jeeps painted in army green formed an automotive barricade outside the front of the hotel. What must have been a platoon of militiamen was gathered outside the entrance, awaiting a shootout all seriously hoped would not have to come to pass. The two young Russians stuck out like sore thumbs among the uniformed soldiers hiding behind automobiles, armed to the teeth all manner of munitions. Rifles, carbines, and submachine guns were gripped by the hands of men, young and afraid, never once suspecting that violence or unrest could plague this small town…cut off from the brutal war over the oceans and far away.

They found Lieutenant Denisov, crouching behind a convertible jeep with a pistol in his hand. Next to him was a man who appeared to be a captain, judging by the insignia on his shoulder straps. They were deep in conversation as Talho approached him. Denisov raised a hand, indicating for her to hold.

"Who's the other guy?" Holland whispered.

"Captain Forrester," Talho replied. "He's our company commander. Denisov answers to him."

After a few moments, the two officers broke, and Denisov turned to Talho. He was initially surprised to see her in her normal day clothes, and with her rifle and ammunition. Even more surprised (and somewhat distressing) was the presence of her significant other, Holland Novikov. As much as it was unorthodox, they were out of time, and they needed to set aside matters of protocol and rules of combat aside for now.

"I preferred you had come in your uniform, Private First Class. I also preferred you had come alone, but no matter. We are in a very shaky situation, and I fear things may turn south quickly."

"What's going on, Lieutenant?" Talho asked in bewilderment.

Denisov sighed, and calmly briefed her on the major details of their current position.

"We got a call from the Pathfinder Hotel that there had been a holdup in the lobby. The entire hotel is on lockdown right now."

"But who is holding up the hotel?"

"The caller said they wore Zoot Suits, but no one really knows for sure. I guess the Pachucos are looking to start a copycat riot after all the mess in LA. Take a look."

Denisov pointed to Talho's right, and she looked to see a young sergeant, barely in his twenties, walking forward in-between the spaces of the automobiles. He carried no weapons on him. Not a rifle, not a pistol, not even a knife. All he carried was an acoustic megaphone, red in color. Denisov explained to the young girl what choices lay before them as the sergeant raised the megaphone to his mouth. When they were laid before her, she understood just what was at stake.

"We'll try and reason with these people. If that doesn't work, we storm the building."

The choices could not be more stark. The carrot or the stick. And if it came to using the stick, who knew what kind of opposition they'd be facing inside? Were these people even armed? Could they mount a stiff enough resistance to cause this kind of standoff? Just who was holding up that hotel?

"Something is not right here," she said to Holland. "I think there are more than just gangsters in that building."

"I think you're right," Holland whispered. "I smell a rat in all of this. A rat named Chertov."

The sergeant interrupted their exchange of reservations by shouting demands to the bandits inside.

"THIS IS THE STATE MILITIA! WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND THERE'LL BE NO TROUBLE. IF YOU FAIL TO COMPLY, WE ARE AUTHORIZED TO USE FORCE. REPEAT: WE ARE AUTHORIZED TO USE—"

The sergeant never finished his sentence, as a loud shot rang out from the hotel and a bullet penetrated his forehead. The force of the bullet sent his peaked cap flying off his head as he careened backwards, falling down dead. Talho didn't see who fired, but she knew that with that one shot, a battle would begin. Her first. Soon, the hotel windows and doors were lit up with the sound of rapid-rate gunfire. A bullet whizzed towards Talho's head and struck the hood of the Jeep she was crouching behind, causing her to jump in surprise. She had never before experienced combat, but now that she was getting a taste of it, she wondered if this was truly the job worth having.

Denisov shouted to all behind the Jeeps and trucks,

"SUPPRESSIVE FIRE!"

On that verbal cue, more than 50 soldiers hiding behind automobiles raised their weapons and returned fire on the bandits inside. Talho peered over the hood of the Jeep, trying to find a target to shoot. This was a difficult task, as the cacophony of gunfire and the constant stream of bullets her way limited her ability to focus on a target. Still, she did what she was ordered to and fired in the direction of the hotel.

Scanning the windows of the hotel, Talho found blasts of orange flame in rapid succession, blasts from the muzzles of the submachine guns. They provided a marker for targets to focus on, and she slowly squeezed the trigger, keeping her sights on the blasts. The rifle kicked back, almost breaking her shoulder with the percussion. Surprisingly to her, though, the round connected with her target, as the shooter fell from the window and from her view with a red flash of blood and an loud, audible scream.

And thus she landed her first kill.

As much as this situation, this first taste of combat, was something she had always desired to experience, to see, to feel, to hear, she suddenly had doubts. Was such fear, violence, and death worth having to endure the long routines of patrolling, cleaning floors, fetching cigars and serving coffee? Were the rigors of actual combat and the chaos of actual battle what she had so long sought?

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, YUKIEVA?!" Denisov shouted. "FIRE YOUR WEAPON!"

She was a soldier now. That meant obeying orders, and doing what one must to survive.

Calmly, she shifted her aim to the right and saw a Pachuco near the front entrance door. He was a tall young man, wearing a fancy black zoot suit, an ammunition pouch over his shoulder and a long gold chain from his pocket. He was firing a Thompson submachine gun with a box magazine from the hip, in an attempt to hold back an assault from the militia. She took aim at him, blocking out the barrage of bullets, the cursing of her fellow militiamen, the calls of her officers and even the brief comments of Holland, and fired.

Her shot broke the glass door behind him, but didn't deter him from keeping up the fire. She fired again, adjusting her aim slightly to the left. Still nothing, only whizzing by and striking inside the building. As she tried to fired again, her weapon fouled, and the Pachuco noticed her. He shifted his focus to her and Holland and shot off a spray of bullets, registering as pings on the hood of the Jeep as she ducked down to tend to her Garand.

"Talho!"

She looked to her right and saw Holland shooting around the grill of the Jeep, trying to distract the Pachuco in the doorway. He felt her gaze, and turned to her with razor-sharp blue eyes.

"Aim for the stomach!"

"Why?"

"Body mass! You're guaranteed to hit that way!"

Talho only nodded, and waited for an opportunity to come along. She peered over the hood, and eyed her target, who was now focusing on Holland. It seemed like he hadn't changed magazines from the moment she laid eyes on him. How many rounds did he have in that gun?

Her question was soon answered as the last round was spent, and he quickly went for his ammunition pouch to change magazines. An opportunity presented itself, one she did not let slip by her. In a flash, she arose from behind the Jeep and fired twice, maybe three times, in his direction, aiming for body mass as Holland had suggested.

The bullets ripped through the black suit and the Pachuco as blood spurted from the wounds. The gangster fell forward with a sickening thud onto the pavement, his weapon clattering to the ground. As if his death was a herald of their defeat, the fire from the building slackened, and Talho could see the gunners running deeper into the hotel. Just then she heard the blowing of a whistle and saw Captain Forrester signaling the company.

"Move in now!"

Like a great tidal wave moving towards the shore, the militiamen hurdled over the automobiles and made a dash for the entrance. Talho charged in like a bull rushing for a bullfighter's red cape, bursting through the glass revolving door and entering the lobby.

It was a lavish place, complete with a red carpet and stone pillars like a Roman pantheon. The furniture (what was left of it) was Edwardian in style, with couches in green velveteen upholstery and dark oak legs. Near the marble front desk of the concierge, there stood two young Pachucos shoulder to shoulder in matching brown zoot suits, each holding a military-issue BAR1 with the muzzles aimed straight at her. Talho raised her rifle to fire, but before she could even get a shot off, a hailstorm of bullets rained down on the two Pachucos, slicing through their bodies like butter. As they dropped dead, she turned in astonishment to see who had saved her from certain death.

There in the doorway stood Holland, holding a newly scavenged Thompson and ammunition pouch slung over his shoulder. The muzzle smoked like the burnt end of a cigarette as he looked to her with an overconfident on his face.

"Sometimes, Talho Igorevna," he noted ruefully, "you need more than just a rifle to get you through combat!"

Talho laughed quietly at his nonchalant attitude toward this dangerous situation, but the respite was short-lived. Behind the front desk, a young girl fired her pistol at both of them, causing them to scatter and duck underneath one of the Edwardian couches. While they tried to figure out what to do, another militiaman from across the lobby called out.

"Cover me!"

Holland looked up to see a young boy, a corporal, rushing out from behind a splintered chair with a grenade in hand. Instinctively he fired his Thompson over the top of the couch, providing enough cover fire for the corporal to lob his grenade. The instant it was thrown, the girl commanded whoever was taking shelter behind the desk to immediately vacate.

"Grenade! Move!"

The girl and three Pachucos escaped from the front desk just as it detonated, sending shrapnel everywhere. As she ran, however, a small hint of orange flared from underneath her cloak. The young Russians instantly recognized her.

"That's the same girl who broke into our house!" Holland declared.

"I recognize her," Talho muttered. "The same girl who Denisov interrogated. But that means…"

"Chertov _is_ behind this. He has to be."

"But why use gangsters? What could he hope to gain by starting a riot?"

"I don't know, but we have to find him."

At that moment, a strange sound interrupted their conversation. It sounded like…radio chatter?

"_Lobby unit, report."_

They looked down at the floor, and saw a peculiar speaking device. It was a communicator. The orange haired girl must've dropped it accidently.

"_Lobby unit, report, goddammit!"_

"_340, they're all dead."_

"_What the hell are you paid for?! Don't let the militia get to the elevators!"_

Recognizing a tactical advantage, Talho stripped the girl of her communicator and equipped it on herself, ignoring the calls of her fellow soldiers to push forward.

"If we listen in," she explained as Denisov came to join them, "we might be able to find information on Chertov."

Talho and Holland were ordered forward by Denisov, down the corridor towards the conference room. While sprinting, Talho could listen in on the enemy's chatter.

"_This is the back entry unit. The militia have broken through the parking lot. They're inside the perimeter!"_

"_Fall back. Defend the conference room!"_

Sure enough, when the same grenade-throwing corporal reached the double doors to the conference room, he found it was locked. He began fervently kicking at them, hoping to bash them in. Before he could get a second kick, however, the soldiers heard loud, rapid cracks from inside, and small perforated holes popped through the door frame. The corporal was showered with bullets at least ten times before he fell, his entire chest stained red with blood. The rapid gunfire created a small hole, through which Holland returned fire with his Thompson, trying to assuage the suppression the gangsters had on them. A sergeant came forward and pitched a grenade through the hole like a pitcher throwing a baseball.

At the sound of the grenade's explosion, Holland kicked down the double doors, and the militiamen rushed in to find, hiding in a corner behind the conference table, a black-haired Pachuco in a taupe zoot suit and what looked to be a black-haired female civilian. But looks were deceiving. Just like 909, the orange-haired assassin, this girl wore a blue cloak and hood over a white frilled blouse and matching trousers with a blue bowtie around her neck. The girl didn't look to be Mexican or Latin American at all; judging by her complexion and her facial features, she appeared to be from Central Asia. It made this robbery all the more mysterious.

Without any hesitation or verbal cue from the militiamen, the girl raised up her hands and shouted repeatedly, in evidently bad English,

"Don't shoot! I surrender! Don't shoot! I surrender!"

The sergeant took her and escorted her out of the conference room, before handing her over to a pair of soldiers that would take her out of the hotel and back to headquarters for questioning. The sergeant then ordered Talho to follow him to the elevators, where Denisov was waiting. Once again, the communicator erupted in chatter.

"_The militia have taken the lobby and the conference room!"_

There followed a few seconds of static.

"_Defend the upper floors! We need to buy as much time as possible!"_

Buy time? What were they stalling for? It was more than a holdup now; it was a delay, pulling away militia resources from something else. But from what? Talho had little time to delineate such questions, as Denisov quickly briefed his platoon on the plan of action.

"Alright, 3rd platoon, listen up. We'll cover far more ground faster if we split up and clear out the floors individually. There's reason to believe this may be linked to the assassination attempts on Renton Thurston, so we cannot waste any time. Sergeant Dougherty and first squad will clear out floors two through four. Sergeant Nechayev and second squad will handle floors five through seven. Remember: check your corners and keep an eye out for civilians. And try to see if you can't take some of those cloaked girls prisoner!"

Holland asked Talho who to follow, and she pointed to Nechayev, a young 21-year-old sergeant with black hair and blue eyes. As the elevator doors closed, there immediately spread gossip of what could be behind this faux robbery.

"So what's that I heard about this being connected to the Thurston case?" asked an 17-year-old corporal.

"Ask Yukieva," Nechayev replied. "She found the evidence…didn't you?

Talho cleared her throat and explained.

"We spotted a girl we captured a while back. Remember that girl who spat in the Lieutenant's face?"

"Yeah…"

"That was her. She escaped and was working with whoever wants Thurston dead."

"And you're saying whoever wants him dead is behind this fiasco?"

"We'll soon see," Talho replied simply.

Above the elevator door, the numbers slowly increased with each floor they passed.

Second.

Third.

Fourth.

"This is it, lads," Nechayev reminded them, cocking his rifle. "Full auto and fingers on those triggers. We don't know what's waiting for us outside that door."

The elevator eased up to the fifth floor, and with a ding of the bell, the doors slowly slid open. Nechayev, Talho, Holland, and seven other soldiers cautiously crept out into the hallway, weapons firmly in hand. The hallway was equally fancy with fleur-de-lis patterned carpeting and Victorian style lamps hanging on the walls in-between the rooms. Nothing looked suspicious, for the moment. However, as the last soldier exited from the elevator, and as the doors closed behind them, something unexpected happened.

A young corporal clumsily stepped onto a timed bomb, hidden underneath the center of the carpet floor. With the bomb triggered, Holland heard a series of rapid beeps, and alarmed everyone to leave the area.

"RUN!"

The squad split up in two different directions to avoid what came next.

BOOM!

The bomb detonated with an explosion powerful enough to break the floor apart. Through the dust and heavy scent of cordite, Talho and she couldn't hear anyone either. There was a ghastly ringing in her ears that persisted as she scanned the hallway. Holland was nowhere in sight. They were separated in the blast, and as she looked out behind her, realized she could not make her way over to join them, lest she fall to her death through the large gaping hole in the floor. As the ringing subsided, she called out, hoping to hear her lover's voice.

"Holland!" she shouted across the divided hallway. "Sergeant Nechayev! Is everyone alright?!"

"We're fine!" Holland replied, his baritone cutting through the smoke. "Just keep going!"

At that, shots rang out on their side of the hallway. As much as she wanted to join them, to keep fighting with them, Talho forced herself to advance onward, down the empty hallway to her front. She knew she couldn't afford to waste time going floor by floor, clearing out gangsters and assassins. If this battle was to end swiftly, decisively, she had to disrupt the direction of defense. With that singular goal in mind, she took to the emergency stairs at the end of the hall, and proceeded to the rooftop, alone.

As she made her way up, the communicator erupted again in chatter.

"_The fifth floor bomb went off successfully. Now they can't get back across."_

"_Good. That should slow them down a bit."_

"_This the third floor unit! We're getting pushed on all sides! We can't hold!"_

The feed cut out with a sudden gunshot and a load groan. Whoever was in charge of that unit was dead. When the teenaged private first class finally reached the door to the roof, she braced herself mentally for what was to come. Surely the defense coordinator would be heavily guarded. And whoever commanded the defense was obviously close to Chertov. To get to the bottom of this, she would have to cut through guards and go straight for the target.

Without an moment's hesitation and with all the strength she could gather, she kicked down the wrought iron door, and immediately came face to face with a Pachuco in a brown zoot suit, wielding a carbine.

"Pinche gringa puta! Aquí estás!"

Talho fired her Garand and put two rounds into the Pachuco before he could even put up a fight. She heard the dreaded _ping _of an emptied clip ejecting from the rifle. Before she could reload, two steps out onto the roof, and she saw her.

Kneeling beside a radio was a young girl, no younger than Talho herself, wearing a white frilled blouse and matching skirt and a dark blue cloak and hood over her. Her short blonde hair swirled around her head like a hurricane and blue eyes cut through the whipping winds to Talho's strong hazel ones. In an instant, she recognized her. The blonde assassin, the same one who had attacked Renton Thurston and put her in the hospital with a leg injury not a week prior.

She let her get away before. This time, there was no room for error. Ammunition or not, she had to capture her alive. Like a bull raging at a matador, Talho charged at 340 as fast as she could. Just when the blonde was about to raise her hands in surrender, she felt the sudden force of might charged against her stomach. The two young women flew back and tripped over a ledge, breaking through a skylight. Soon enough, they were falling into a large room, with the blonde screaming for dear life.

Eventually, they both landed with a large splash into an indoor pool, and both were submerged in the water. A few seconds passed as the shock of the fall subsided, and Talho swam for the underwater stairs, dragging 340 by the collar with her. She would not let her escape this time.

340 dragged herself out of the pool and onto the ceramic tiles of the floor, coughing and gagging from the water in her lungs. As she turned over, Talho landed a punch on her face, as if to cement the fact she was a prisoner now.

"OW! Chyort voz'mi2!"

"Don't do anything stupid," Talho warned, "or you'll get another."

340 said nothing, and only raised her hands slowly.

"I surrender."

Talho was taken aback by the sudden admission of defeat, but didn't change her disposition. She only kept a firm grip on her drenched collar.

"Why give up so easily? Do you have a death wish?"

"Not at all," 340 replied. "Actually, I want to help you lot."

Talho loosened her grip slightly.

"What do you mean? Help us do what?"

"Why, to catch Chertov, of course," she explained. "When I was assigned to him, I thought I was simply doing another job. But I got caught up in something I shouldn't have. I _won't_ be complicit in killing a child. Chertov is just a psychopathic maniac. He'll stop at nothing for revenge."

"So you mean…Chertov _is_ behind this attack?"

"Yes. This whole thing was a setup to lure you away. He's on his way to Sacramento to confront Renton Thurston as we speak."

Her eyes widened at the assassin's admission. If that were the case, they could not waste any time, lest they have the blood of Thurston spilled by day's end.

"You're kidding…"

"I don't feel like kidding today. We should go. Before it's too late."

Talho did not need to hear anymore, as she pulled up herself and 340. They were both soaked through to the skin, but it didn't matter for the moment. Renton and Eureka were in danger.

"You can explain everything on the way there."

340 nodded, and allowed the young soldier to lead the way out of the pool house and towards an elevator that would take them down. There a quickness and sense of urgency in each step, as both young women knew they were in a race against time. And Chertov was not an enemy to give either of them that time.

1 BAR: Browning Automatic Rifle

2 Damn it!


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: This is it. The battle everyone has been waiting for. Renton vs. Chertov! Who will win? Read and find out. Incidentally, you should know that the next two chapters will be the last for War of the Heart. Be sure to look forward to it, and review with whatever thoughts you have. I'll see you next week, and when the last chapter is posted, I'll update on what's going to happen next.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-one**

**June 8****th****, 1943**

**Sacramento, California, USA**

It was their last day in the city and their last day before moving south to a new hiding place. Renton wanted the visit to end on a happy note, and found a dance hall at the bottom floor of the hotel; it was amazing to him how he had not noticed it at the beginning. Still, it offered for some revelry and idle distraction before they had to check out the next day. When Renton offered to Eureka the chance of an intimate dance, she jumped immediately.

The dance hall was dimly lit with a European chandelier, reminiscent of the grand palaces of Vienna in days of Hapsburg. In contrast, the music blaring from the speakers was a modern swing tune, which had everyone jumping. The floor was practically packed with people getting right to the dancing with their respective partners, following their leads. Eureka was visibly excited by it, as she pulled and tugged at Renton's shirt sleeve to join her on the dance floor. Perhaps the lights and general ecstatic atmosphere thrilled her. Or was it the lively song of Artistry in Rhythm by Stan Kenton that sent her flying over onto the floor?

"Come on, Rentoshka! Let's dance!"

Eureka could not help but laugh at seeing Renton trying (and failing) to keep a steady rhythm. The 17-year-old had traveled across the world, spoke a foreign language, fought Germans and Soviets alike, bested local gangsters, was a prodigy in everything from history to firearms, but he could not master the art of dance?

"Don't laugh!" he protested. "You know I'm not good at this!"

"All right, I'll help. Here…"

Gently, the young girl took his two hands, and placed them both on her hips. Even for a girl as young as her, he realized, she had an impressive figure, as he could feel her burgeoning, blossoming hips had grown wider. It was the herald of a girl who was shedding her childlike skin, and growing into a strong, confident, and loving woman. He wished the music would stop, and he could simply stay like this with her as Eureka rested her own hands on Renton's broad shoulders. Then, the girl swayed her hips from side to side, back and forth. Renton felt as if he would fall dead on the spot, the sight of the loveliest, most beautiful woman in his life move so sensuously. So fluidly. So gracefully.

Gradually, Renton managed to gain a rhythm in keeping with the music. Still, he wished there was merely a moment of silence and absolute solitude so he could keep this moment with her. The least he wanted was for the music to change to something more slow and soothing.

"This isn't nearly as embarrassing as I thought it would be," Renton remarked to himself.

"I told you!" Eureka replied, smiling as she twirled about like a ballerina.

After a few more minutes of wild, ecstatic dancing, the song changed. The melody was slow, lilting, and had a grip over all the couples on the floor to engage in an intimate, methodical dance. Renton and Eureka were one of those couples.

They held each other close, some would say too close for comfort. But Renton found comfort in her embrace, knowing she was in his arms, and not far away and out of his reach. He could not hold back his strong emotions as his hands left her hips, and traveled up her sides and found themselves clutching the back of her white summer dress. He gripped the fabric tightly, as if clinging to the gown of an angel about to depart from the human world. Eureka reciprocated his actions with her own, gently resting her head on his shoulder as they rocked from side to side. As they danced and held each other tightly, Renton began to contemplate just what would happen to them after this whole business with Chertov ended. It _had_ to end sometime.

Returning home would be a good start. Settling back into a normal civilian life was a must. But after that, and after the Arcadian bliss of summer vacation ended, he didn't know. This war would drag on, surely, and there was no telling what it would bring either of them. However, he resolved not to go back abroad if he could avoid it. Instead, he wanted to show her everything close and dear to his heart. He wanted her to feast her eyes upon sights no one had seen but him. He wanted her to know secrets he never breathed a word of to anyone. He wanted to share with her his hopes and dreams…and how he envisioned her in them.

Baby steps, he said to himself. Start small, and grow from there. He had to start somewhere if he was to get to the rest of it.

"When this is over," he whispered to her, "I want to take you somewhere."

"What do you mean? Do you mean a date?"

"If you want it that way."

Eureka smiled at the thought of another day alone with him. All manner of places struck her fancy as possible locales for their outing. A trip to the headlands? No, he didn't seem the athletic type. Maybe a cruise on the bay? No, too expensive, even for him.

"Where do you plan on taking me?" she whispered.

"I'd rather it be a surprise for you."

Eureka feigned a small pout.

"Can't you give me a _few_ details? I'd like some knowledge of what you'll be getting me into."

"I can tell you this much: it won't be in Bellforest, and it won't be in Sacramento. It'll be a place with just us. Nobody to pester us. No militia, no Chertov, no assassins…not even Jane. Just a place far away from all the drama…a special place for both of us."

She smiled, riveting in the thought of an undisturbed sanctuary, where there'd only be him, her, and their love.

"I like the sound of that. I'll be looking forward to it."

Renton tightened his hold on her, not wanting to let go for a moment. It felt like a perfect night, the stars in alignment. Ever since they arrived in Sacramento, there had been nothing to cause them worry. The only thing they had to look forward to each day was time spent together. Night after night for two youngsters to dance, to carouse, to be intimate, to finally feel free. Yet outside the dance hall, unbeknownst to the two of them, an old predator had at last found his prey.

Without much delay, Chertov had managed to track down the Cypress Hotel, and ascertain the location of Renton Thurston, his hated rival. He had to hijack a car to get all the way up here without attracting attention, but it was never much of a problem. The owner wasn't going to miss it. He had arrived outside at the lobby, and he inconspicuously walked through the plush front room, without even attracting attention from the concierge. How he managed to draw no eyes was a feat in itself; he had on his traditional olive drab summer uniform, complete with shoulder boards indicating his rank of junior lieutenant. He was plainly wearing his foreigner's status on him. How could no one pay attention?

As he traveled further back into the hotel, he heard the sound of a soft, soothing melody from his right. Chertov looked to see a set of oak double doors, wide open and showing a hall packed with dancers. He leaned nonchalantly against the wall as he scanned the room for the target. While doing so, his hands reached down for two armaments he carried on his person. While his right hand reached for his revolver tucked in its holster, his left reached for a fragmentation grenade. Even if this caused collateral damage, it mattered little to him. Anyone who got in his way would be swept aside.

Sure enough, in a dark corner of the room, he spotted Renton…and to his surprise, Eureka with him. They were holding each other closely looking nowhere else but into the other's eyes. He could see Renton whispering sweet nothings in her ear, which made Chertov grind his teeth in anger. Such ignorant fools. They were living blissfully unaware of what was to befall them. His brow furrowed deeper as the slow song continued on, tormenting him at the sight of his rival enjoying the time of his life. What makes him think he's happy? What hope did he have for a bright future? What did Eureka ever see in him?

Renton didn't deserve a happy ending, not after everything he had done. He had stolen Chertov's rightful place in the spotlight twice. He had turned the entire neighborhood against him. He had won the love and affection of his own country, with awards, decorations and praise showered upon him like a great rainstorm of celebration. He deserved none of that attention, praise or love. This time, he'd put a stop to this whole thing, once and for all.

Having spent enough time leering at the young couple, the young Soviet officer entered the dance hall, just as the music stopped right on time. It was now the perfect time to initiate shock and confusion, and allow him to strike. He reached for his revolver and aimed for the chandelier lights.

He fired.

The shots landed square on the bulbs up in the chandelier, sending sparks everywhere and covering the dance floor in darkness. That earned frantic screams and shrieks from the people on the dance floor.

Just then, two police officers, both in their late twenties, approached the scene, aiming their guns at the boy.

"Put your hands up!" the first one commanded.

"Drop your gun, kid!" the second shouted.

He growled like an angered animal, and knew he had to make this quick. Even in Sacramento, far away from the eyes of the militia, he still ran into complications. It was just another obstacle he had to hurdle. Acting quickly, he primed the grenade and threw it into the dance hall.

"Everyone, get off the dance floor! NOW!" they shouted to the civilians.

Inside, Renton and Eureka immediately ducked under a table while the other dancers on the floor scattered in different directions, like ants fleeing from a large predator. Renton watched as an object fell onto the middle of the floor and quickly detonated with a loud boom. Shrapnel flew everywhere and the room was clouded in a thick, impenetrable smoke to blind the innocents. He and Eureka covered their mouths to shield themselves from the choking pall of smoke, while outside, a battle was taking shape.

Immediately after he tossed his grenade, Chertov spun on his heel and shot his revolver right in the face of the first police officer. As he fell, the second tried to restrain Chertov, but Chertov landed a quick punch on him and sent him back. After achieving some distance, Chertov fired his revolver again, and killed the second officer with a shot through the chest. After dispatching with the two officers, and leaving the entire lobby in a cesspool of chaos and confusion, he nonchalantly walked down, into the dance hall.

"Keep playing music!" Chertov commanded sardonically, cackling. "I was just starting to like it!"

He walked around the dance hall when a lively dance number struck up. Chertov sounded like a child in an amusement park, having the time of his life while he searched and called out Renton's name, hoping to draw him out. Renton in the meantime knew what was happening, and his sharp green orbs narrowed in contempt at the sound of his laughter. His howling, psychopathic, insane laughter.

"I know that laugh anywhere," he said under his breath.

Eureka looked up at him worriedly. She knew as well as anyone what was happening. A name and face they had tried so desperately to forget was back, and with a vengeance.

"Renton…"

"Chertov is here."

"But how? How did he find out where we are?"

"I don't know, but…"

Chertov spun on his booted heel in a half-hearted attempt at dancing.

"You should join me, Thurston! This song is absolutely splendid! COME AND DANCE WITH ME!"

Renton watched as the boots of his nemesis circled around, searching for him. He knew eventually Chertov would find out where they were hiding, but he would not give up without a fight. He had tried so hard and so long to forget about what he did in Russia. About the people he fought and killed. About the people who turned on him. About the appalling conditions of war and ruin. Chertov would _not_ destroy him, like he had destroyed everything else. Renton briefly confided in Eureka his plan to finally put him out of their lives for good.

"I'm going to try and jump him while he's not looking," he whispered. "You stay here."

Without even listening for a confirmation from Eureka, he crept out from under the table, and clung to the walls, hiding in the shadows as he made his way around Chertov. All the while, Chertov continued to laugh and jeer, coaxing him in all manner of ways.

"Why don't you come out, Thurston? Or is it perhaps you're a bad dancer?! Well, if I can't get _you _to come out, maybe I can get your lady friend…"

Eureka was frozen in fear as she saw the boots move toward her, and she held back a scream as they clopped, nearer and nearer. He was now right in front of the table, and all she could see were the bottom of his boots, the rest hidden by the tablecloth. She slowly inched towards the wall behind her while Chertov cocked his revolver. Then suddenly, the tablecloth flipped up, and Eureka was met with the most ghastly sight she could ever comprehend.

In front of her was her old neighbor and all-around antagonist. His brown hair was greasy and uncombed underneath his peaked cap, bearing the cockade of her old nation, a nation she tried to put behind her. Two decadent chocolate brown eyes stared directly into her snowy grey ones with a crazed bloodlust. If she didn't know any better, she would think that gaze belonged to a convicted murderer. His smile was wide, bearing his stained teeth in an insane grin of the kind only a madman could bear. She even felt the penchant stench of vodka on his breath like a mist as he breathed menacingly the words,

"Found you."

A bloodcurdling scream escaped her lips and killed the deadly silence of the dance floor. Chertov reached out a hand towards her with the intent of dragging her out of hiding. As soon as his head was underneath the table, Eureka let out a swift kick to his face that sent him sliding back onto the dance floor. While he sat writhing and tending to his wounds, Renton came at him from behind, and struck him over the head with a wooden plank. The plank broke in two with a sickening crack, as Chertov groaned in frustration. He turned around and, with blood leaking down his forehead, cracked a smile.

"There you are! Now, let's play!"

Chertov swung his revolver like a cudgel, hoping to passionately reciprocate his attack, but Renton stepped back before coming at him with a hard punch to the stomach. He then made a grab for his revolver, hoping to end this conflict between them once and for all. Chertov anticipated this and jabbed him hard across the face, sending him careening over in a crumpled heap. As Renton tried to regain his footing, Chertov was about to make the killing blow when he heard many footsteps approaching, and the chatter of police and security guards gathering outside the dance hall. He cursed in frustration at people always trying to interfere, to put a stop to what he so desperately wanted resolved. Looking back to Renton, who was now slowly rising up from the floor like a spirit from the grave, he reasoned there had to be a more isolated place to settle their score.

He soon came up with something.

"I hate performing for an audience," he said dryly to Renton. "Why don't we take this to some place more…intimate?"

"Are you threatening me or coming on to me?" Renton shot back.

Chertov cast aside his retort with a huff, and quickly threw down a small bomb, which exploded into a blanketing cloud of vapor. Renton was blinded for a moment, but he could just barely make out the silhouette of his rival darting out of the room, up the steps and into the lobby. How like him, Renton thought, to cut and run when the odds weren't in his favor. A coward and a bully, just like he always was.

"Come and find me, Thurston, and we shall put an end to this! You'll know where to look!"

"Come back here, you coward!"

Renton sprinted out the dance floor through the smoke and climbed up the short stairway back to the lobby. There were already signs of pandemonium. A crowd of onlookers had gathered outside the hotel walls, wondering what the gunfire and explosions were all about. They probably thought another Zoot Suit riot had broken out, and their fair city was the sufferer. Renton knew the awful truth, however. On the carpet floor in front of him lay the bodies of two police officers, both victims of Chertov's rage. That rage would end today, he resolved to himself. Knowing he couldn't take Chertov with only his flesh and blood, Renton quickly armed himself with a dead policeman's revolver in one hand, and a metal truncheon in the other.

Tucking the revolver into his pocket, Renton raced through the lobby and past the armed policemen that were rushing to investigate the scene. Just as he passed the desk of the concierge, he felt a tug on his wrist and was immediately stopped. He wondered who could stop him from pursuing his tormentor, the bane of his existence, the darkest spot in his history he would rather erase. In truth, he should have known right from the start as he looked over his shoulder.

There, shuddering like a wounded dog, with tears standing in her snow grey eyes, was Eureka, resistant to seeing her beloved travel down the dark route they had only recently escaped from. Smoke was smeared on her face and her hair was a mess, as if a great tempest had struck her head. Her lips quivered with all the might of an earthquake, fearing it may be the last time she would see him.

"You're not going without me, Rentoshka…"

"Eurekasha, I have to."

"Why must you?!" she cried, tears soaking her marble smooth cheeks. "You know what will happen if you follow him!"

"If not me, then who, Eureka?!" he shouted desperately. "Don't you see? If we keep running and running, he's going to come back! _Someone_ has to stop him. To show him once and for all that he can't hurt any of us!"

"I just don't know what I'd do…to see you disappear so soon after coming back into my life…"

Renton knew that fear, better than anyone. It was the same fear that compelled him to travel back over the icy steppes and through the blood-soaked streets of her city to find her. He resolved that time he wouldn't lose her to this war. Now she felt that same fear here. The dread of losing him to a man like Chertov was far too much for her tender heart to bear. In an instant, he embraced her tightly, and both quietly fought with each other over who should go and bear the burden of bringing justice to this villain.

"Please let me come with you," Eureka whispered.

"He'll use you to beat me," he answered back. "He'll use you to distract me and find a way to kill me. Please, Eureka, just bear with this…for me."

"You're locking me out again, and going into that place that causes you pain."

"You're wrong, Eureka. I'm not doing this for myself. I'm doing this for us. Someone has to prove to him he can't hurt us anymore, and he won't listen to anyone else."

Eureka sighed. As much as she wished she could share in his burden, and confront their fear together, he was right. Chertov wanted _him_ and no one else. If his defeat was to be final, if he was to ever understand how truly powerless he was against them, the defeat had to come by Renton's hand. It was a reality she wished could be different. Sadly, reality never changes, and never concedes to the preferences of a one.

"Just promise me one thing."

"Anything."

Promise me…that if it comes to it…"

At that moment, Eureka grabbed Renton's hand, and placed it on her neck, as if asking him to choke her and deny her the place she resided in this mortal world.

"you will _not_ let him take me back to Stalingrad."

He gently removed his hand from her neck, and instead placed his lips there in a soft, deep, adoring kiss. She could not help but moan to his response. Even in times of crisis, Renton had a way of being passionate.

"It won't come to that," he whispered. "Stay here, and phone the militia if you can."

With that, the young lovers parted, and the young boy sprinted out of the hotel, searching for the place where he and Chertov would finally settle their score. This time, it would be final. Their rivalry would end here and now. He would prove to the psychopathic officer that he could never hurt him or his love. Ever again.

»»»»»

After about half an hour of wandering, Renton came to an abandoned factory, about six blocks from the hotel. Normally he would have passed it and just kept searching, but he felt something emanating from within. Like a siren calling from the depths of the sea, Renton could not help but obey as he entered the dark, dingy factory.

Judging by the machinery, the factory used to make furniture of all kinds. He saw further evidence with half-finished sofas and chairs, piled in a corner like bodies on a funeral pyre. The factory must have been condemned a long time ago, as he could see the woodwork had begun to decay and upholstery was slowly being consumed by worms and moths. There was little illumination outside of the sun's rays breaking through the skylights, casting a spotlight on various set pieces of days gone by. A woodwork assembly line. A row of sewing benches. Sanding machines. Every step he took echoed like he was in the tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh as he searched for the mummy of his past that just would not rest.

There was strong smell of metal and rust in the air as he climbed the staircase with a clatter in each step. Renton took care to look all around, even behind him, not knowing when or from where his old nemesis could strike. But the more time he spent in this place, the more he realized why he could be here.

With every split second Renton closed his eyes to blink, he was back in the smoldering ruins of Stalingrad. The gunfire, the screams, the smell of smoke, the sight of twisted metal and broken buildings weighed heavily on him as he reached the top of the staircase, and came onto a walkway. The sight of chains hanging from the roof like icicles in a cave sent him back to the sprawling industrial plant, where many a man died. He could hear the cries of Germans and Russians alike and thought he spotted Petya Sokolov, with Natasha close behind, running down the walkway in search of a good sniping position. It was a perfect place to do battle. Not because of any tactical advantage one had over the other, but simply because it harkened back memories Renton would rather forget.

Just as he rounded a corner, Renton heard a loud clanging noise from above. It sounded like chains rattling. He looked up and saw a large hook freefall from its large metal coil, coming straight at him.

He backed away just in time for it to miss him by inches, falling onto the walkway with a metallic clatter. As he backed into a shadowed corner, he heard breathing from behind him, and turned to see Chertov lunging at him with a knife in hand.

Quickly he darted back enough to gain some distance between them, and Chertov only landed a hit to the walkway, sending sparks flying with the slice of his knife. He growled in frustration as he stood up, wearing a twisted psychopathic grin.

"We meet again, at last, Thurston. It's been far too long, wouldn't you agree?"

"Not long enough," Renton retorted through gritted teeth.

Chertov made another lunge at Renton with his knife, but Renton blocked it with a swish of his truncheon, and again when Chertov made a jab for his leg. They circled around, and Chertov quickly went on the attack as he forced Renton back over the walkway, all the while taunting him. Renton could only ignore it, and try his best not to be wounded. He wasn't aiming to kill Chertov; he was hoping to buy time. Time enough to wear him down.

His nemesis switched tactics, and produced his revolver, barely meters away from his face. Renton ran towards the staircase, looking for some cover to hide behind and return fire.

"YOU CAN'T RUN!"

The revolver spoke with a loud bang with each shot. Renton could almost hear the bullet whizz past his head and strike the sheet metal walls with a loud snap as he hanged a right and darted down the stairs. He dared not waste his precious ammunition before he could get eyes on him as his green eyes searched for cover. He soon found it in a turned over workbench in the shadows, which he dived behind.

"I'M NOT PLANNING ON IT, YOU BASTARD!"

Renton returned fire with his revolver as Chertov came down the stairs to search for him. Much to his surprise and delight, the bullet connected as it went through the young lieutenant's arm and Chertov fell down onto the steps in agony. Just when Renton thought he managed to stop his rival's rampage, Chertov jumped back up and came at him at full speed, brandishing his knife. He somehow managed to hold onto both of his weapons as he bounded down onto the concrete floor and charged at him like a knight on his horse.

The oak brown-haired boy ducked low from his rival's attempted stab in the face and kicked his enemy in the shin, quickly followed by a punch to his bewildered face. Chertov dodged these, however, and managed to kick Renton off him, aiming his revolver at his face. Renton grabbed him by the wrists and tussled with him for a moment, using merely brute strength to force Chertov to drop his weapons.

"Why don't you lose the toys and fight me like a man, Chertov?!" Renton challenged him, his vocal chords vibrating with anger.

"Nothing would satisfy me more…" Chertov hissed in response, laughing insanely.

To show his challenge was sincere, Renton threw aside his weapons as well, casting them into the darkness. Just as well, he thought as he assumed a ready stance. He wasn't planning on killing Chertov, after all.

The young lieutenant quickly went on the offensive, and tried to land a left jab at Renton's stomach. A split second later, Chertov swung his right arm around in a wide hook, delivering a swift hard punch to his face. Renton sidestepped to the left to avoid the punch, but stumbled on a loose wooden plank on the floor. He almost fell onto his back, but managed to catch himself in time to dodge another attempted blow to the face from Chertov, which he blocked with one hand. Chertov tried to jab at him again with the other, only to be grabbed by the wrist. For a few moments, they simply grappled with each other, engaged not only in a battle of strength but a war of words.

"Why have you come here, Chertov? This is _my_ country!"

"Isn't it obvious?" Chertov retorted gleefully. "I've come to celebrate your death at MY HAND!"

"Then you'll be disappointed. You're not killing me…or anyone else!"

Renton kicked the lieutenant hard in the shins, which sent him hopping back, cursing. He immediately exploited the breach, and went on the attack, landing a swift uppercut on Chertov's jaw, which took him by surprise. Renton followed with a left jab to his face and then a right hook, sending Chertov careening onto his back and his peaked cap flying off his head. As he landed with a hard thud on cement floor, Renton raced forward, hoping to end the fight here and now. He quickly jumped up into the air with the intent to land a swift kick to his stomach, but Chertov shoved him back with his booted foot before rising up again to continue the fight.

"What's wrong, Thurston?" Chertov jeered, cackling. "Afraid?"

The young boy struggled back onto his feet, spitting away a mixture of saliva and blood from his mouth. At the officer's accusation, Renton could only laugh as he put his guard up against any attack Chertov had coming. To hear accusations of fear coming from someone like him was hysterical, ludicrous to even contemplate.

"Afraid? Who'd be afraid of a pipsqueak like you who's too big for his boots? Who'd be afraid of a coward who sends assassins to do his dirty work? Who'd be afraid of a brat who's only cause is to get attention? Who'd be—"

"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!"

Chertov threw everything he had at Renton, kicking him and swinging punches wildly, blindly, hoping for one to connect. But always and every time, Renton managed to dodge and sidestep, knowing he hit a nerve in the young officer's head.

"Sorry. You're the one who asked," Renton hissed sarcastically.

That one cutting remark sent Chertov over the edge, as he swiftly kicked him hard in the shins with his boots. Renton bent over in pain, and Chertov capitalized on the brief moment of weakness with kneeing him in the stomach before finally ending his move with an uppercut to his face, sending Renton flying back. As both young men backtracked through the factory, they felt the telltale signs of fatigue. Neither could keep up the fight for much longer.

Renton had bruises on his face was hemorrhaging from the mouth, his teeth stained crimson with blood. His white shirt was torn and dirty with spots of red on his collar. His vision was beginning to blur as he slowly, uneasily, stepped further and further back into a corner. But the young boy knew he wasn't trapped; his rival was as spent as him, if not more. Chertov was bleeding from the ears and the nose, and his uniform was disheveled, pulled apart. His earth brown hair hung in splayed strands between his chocolate brown eyes, leering at him with murderous portent.

"What's wrong, Thurston? Don't tell me you're getting tired!" Chertov taunted in-between his heavy pants. "Where's the American Russian who fought so bravely at Stalingrad? Where's the great Hero of the People that everyone admires and loves so dearly?"

Renton had long grown tired of that praise, praise he felt was undeserved. To hear his own rival use it as a form of insult made him hate it even more. He did what he felt was necessary, even if it meant turning to violence. If there was a way, any way at all, he could have rescued Eureka from the wretched misery her home had spiraled into, he would have done it. He would have gladly whisked her away without ever having to kill a single soul, German or Russian. How he wished he could erase everything he did in Stalingrad. How he wished he could have come back home with no blood-stained laurels for bystanders to admire, or admiration from his peers for deeds he felt were unjust.

"I never claimed to be no hero!" he retorted.

"Then what are you?" Chertov shot back. "If you take away all the parts of Renton Thurston you try to erase, then what is left? Would you remain who you are now, or would you become something else entirely?"

"You want to know what I am?!"

Renton breathed heavily, back pressed against the wall and his fists raised in guard stance. He was through with titles, medals, and decorations. He was through with honors and praises from those around him. This time, before anything else would come to pass, he would set the record straight.

"My name is Renton Ivanovich Thurston. I am seventeen years old. I am a student at Mount Tamalpais High School. My home is Bellforest, California, on 1225 Bay Street. I am _not_ a hero! I am _not_ a god! I am myself! NO MORE! AND NO LESS!"

With that fervent declaration of identity, Renton swung two final punches at Chertov, hoping to open some distance between himself and the wall behind him. One strong hook fell on Chertov's right cheek, leaving a mark of black and blue, and the other came up from behind, smashing his abdomen, and forcing the lieutenant to move back a few steps. It gave Renton more room, but not enough for what he really needed…what he ultimately had no strength for.

For a moment, the two young men simply stood there, the only sounds being their synchronized panting, echoing within the metal walls of the factory. Each wondered what they could do to bring this fight to a conclusion, looking for a way of escape, or an avenue of attack. They found neither. Instead, they only found the frailty of fatigue, each waiting for the other's move that neither could make. Chertov could only laugh at Renton's heartfelt testimony.

"That sounds so inspiring, Thurston. Too bad it will not mean anything to you…when you're buried six feet under!"

Then, out of nowhere, a voice came from behind them, and a cold metal tube was pressed against the back of Chertov's head, cancelling any move he planned to make in that instant.

"You're not burying anyone. Ever again."

Chertov recognized the voice instinctively. It was a fiery voice of passion, one he thought he had long extinguished before coming here. He turned to look over his shoulder, and what he saw confirmed his suspicions of just who was standing behind him. There, legs spread at shoulder's width, brandishing a semiautomatic pistol, was a young boy of seventeen. His eyes were a striking cold blue, cutting through the shadows as scissors cuts through paper. His head was covered by scraggly and unkempt grey hair, as if a tornado had passed over it. Around his neck was a bright yellow scarf worn in an ascot-like fashion, over a white shirt, black jacket and grey slacks. Chertov laughed quietly with an air of acquaintance. It was him; there was no doubt about it, as much as he was sure there ought to be.

"Ah, Holland Petrovich. You ought to be buried in Stalingrad."

"Well, no one told me. Now put your hands up, Chertov. It's over."

"Or else what?"

"Or we'll turn you into Swiss cheese," said an unfamiliar female voice.

Chertov turned his body a full 180 degrees, to find behind Holland stood a force of several armed soldiers. By their uniform, the Soviet lieutenant recognized them as members of the Bellforest Militia. At the head of the formation was a woman about Holland's age with shoulder-length ebony black hair and strong hazel eyes. If she was a soldier, she was out of uniform, as all she wore was a small violet jacket over a white one-piece dress. The only indication of her service was the ammunition slung around her waist and the Garand rifle she aimed in his direction. Chertov cracked a smirk at the sight of her.

"Who's the broad with the gun? I didn't think you Yanks allowed your women in the Army."

"Shut up!" the girl shouted back. "Put your hands behind your head or we'll kill you on the spot."

The lieutenant turned back to Renton, who stood strong, smiling defiantly against all odds. The writing was on the wall, and it spelled defeat and failure in blood red ink. This long road of intrigue, assassination, revenge, and subterfuge had ended. The battle was over. He sighed, and raised his hands behind his head. He said quietly to Renton,

"Don't look so smug, Thurston. This isn't the end. I'm a patient man; I can wait for revenge a little while longer."

But everyone, even Chertov, knew that posturing of bravado was a masquerade. A militiaman grabbed his hands, and slapped metal cuffs on them. Soon he was being dragged out by the soldiers while Holland and Talho aided a wounded, battered, but unbeaten Renton out of the factory. Upon leaving, they found the street crowded with onlookers, curious as to the drama that was playing out before them. Renton said nothing to questions of passersby, wishing desperately that this matter would end quietly. Sadly, his life had evolved well beyond any notion of quietude.

The defeated Chertov was thrown into the back of a Studebaker truck, where he was greeted by the young faces of his (not so) loyal agents, 340 and 271. Both wore their civilian clothes with blue cloaks draped over them. Their hands were bonded together with metal shackles as well, and Chertov was aghast to find them in the same state as him.

"They got you too…!" he breathed incredulously.

"They got us two hours ago," 340 corrected him gently, giving no hint to the betrayal that had taken place.

Before Chertov could say anymore, he was butted in the back by a militiaman's rifle, coaxing him to take a seat so they could move. So he did, and consigned himself to endure a long, painful car ride in silence. In the time between he sat down, and the time when he got off in Bellforest, more than two hours later, he had time to mull over everything that had happened in the past four months. 340 realized that, in the end, that was just who her superior was. A child who cried over missed opportunities. A child who wished for another chance. A child who never stopped refighting his old battles, and never stopped wondering what might have been.

She was not worried about such things. She knew full well what lay in wait for them next, and that there would be no second chance. There would be no more grand schemes, no strategies of assassination, no daring missions. He had rolled the dice and lost. Their fates were sealed.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Next chapter is going to be the last one. Get ready for some heartwarming resolution, while leaving enough open for the next volume. **

**Before we get to it, though, I want to clear up some misconceptions that I've been seeing online. Apparently, people think that I am plagiarizing Eureka 7, its characters, its themes, etc and using them for my own purpose to launch a literary career. So I will make it clear here to dispel any ambiguity. When I started this, it was an original work. I had different names for the characters, different places, etc. I had all but finished my first book when I first watched Eureka 7, and I saw where parts of my story was back in 2007, when this all started. Now, the story has gone through myriad changes since then, but all the files and documents I keep for this series are the non-E7 originals. No mention of Renton, Eureka, or anything. The only reason I am reuploading NOW is because so much has changed, and it is only fair that the fics are updated as well. What I have published in print and on Kindle is my own original work, independent of E7. Period.**

**Okay, now that that rant is out of the way, read on and enjoy the penultimate chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-two**

**June 10****th****, 1943**

**Bellforest, California, USA**

In the aftermath of the great battle two days before, the town had a dark aura cast over it, one of shock and fear. Wild rumors had spread as to who the militia actually fought with that day, from a Nazi spy ring to elite Japanese special forces. Of course, the militia and Renton Thurston knew full well the grim reality of what they had faced over the past four months. No, it was not the Germans, nor was it the Japanese who were behind all the paranoia, pain and suffering he had felt. It was one lone Soviet officer and his accomplices seeking retribution. Renton's only crime in that officer's eyes, was his very existence. However, there was something good to be seen from the end of all of this.

The 303rd Regiment had finally been vindicated, and it seemed that order and peace was restored at long last. There were congratulations and pats on the back all around, regardless of rank. Even Talho Yukieva, the only soldier who had pursued the case with any degree of conviction and fervor, was rewarded for her work in the form of a promotion to corporal, making her the first and only female noncommissioned officer in the regiment. When Denisov, normally hardnosed and strict, presented her with two chevrons to sew on her uniform, as well as a week's leave with pay, Talho could not contain her joy, and she immediately rushed out of the militia office to tell Holland, Renton, and everyone she knew the good news.

In the span of two days, the speed of life for Eureka had slowed down back to a crawl, and it was something she greatly enjoyed. She even found time to cook for the household, an opportunity she greatly missed. It was for that purpose that she was bringing back groceries from the local Safeway, right across the street from their high school. Renton had been coming home with the appetite of an anteater, and he always turned to her for her culinary skill. For her, it was a badge of recognition she took great pride in wearing.

As she began walking back into the residential section, with grocery bags in hand, she accidentally ran into a familiar face. One she didn't count on (or hoped for) seeing.

It was girl clearly older than her, about 17, and taller too. Her golden blonde hair surged over her broad shoulders and down to the arch in her back, while her ocean blue eyes viewed her in a mixture of dread and hopelessness. She was dressed lightly for the summer heat in a dark blue sundress with puffy sleeves, belted around her slim waist with a pink ribbon. She wore a forlorn expression, almost as if she regretted running into Eureka. And if it was Jane Hart, Eureka did not have to think hard about why.

"Jane…" she started quietly.

"Eureka," the British girl said, almost wistfully.

They both sat down on a bench nearby the Safeway, watching the cloud drift silently across the rich sky, listening to the distant sound of summer birds. For a long time, neither of them spoke, and sat there in an awkward, tense silence. Not long ago, Eureka considered Jane another one of her friends. Granted she was not as close to her as Anemone, but she still felt Jane could be trusted and confided in. So much had changed between them in a short while. Both had feelings for the same boy, the boy who had been at the epicenter of this great drama. One of them had been more successful than the other at winning the boy's heart. During the paranoid months of the assassination attempts, Jane made a desperate advance on Renton, which not only severely damaged their friendship, but a blooming bond with Eureka as well. A cloud of silent anxiety hung over the two rivals.

"It's been a while since we last saw each other," Jane started, trying to melt the ice between.

"I know it has."

"I take it those groceries are for Renton?"

"Yes, they are," Eureka confirmed, showcasing the contents of the bag. "I've been cooking for him and his family for some time now. The whole ordeal has given him quite an appetite."

She cooked for him too? Jane suddenly felt even more envious of Eureka. Perhaps if she had done something similar for Renton earlier, before he went off to become a hero, their relationship might have changed. The gap between them had grown to the size of a ravine. Eureka could not avoid the subject any longer, and went straight to the point.

"Jane," Eureka began, "I know about what happened between you and Renton. I never thought you'd be capable of—"

"Just go ahead and say it," Jane interrupted with a heavy sigh.

Eureka turned to the British girl in bewilderment, and tilted her head. It was clear that Jane felt immense pain from this whole incident. She refused to even look her in the eyes, instead staring off into space.

"Say what?"

Jane softly glared at her. Was this girl really so naive, or was it just an act to torture her further?

"Tell me I'm a home-wrecker, like Anemone said. Call me names. Gloat about how much you and Renton love each other. Brag about all the memories you've shared with him. I deserve it, don't I?"

"I wouldn't brag about _anything_ in my life," Eureka replied, softly. "I've led a difficult life trying to survive this war with my family. It's cost me everything. My youngest brother is dead. My two oldest are still fighting. My father is still fighting. And of course, Stalingrad is gone. I don't _want_ to brag about my feelings…because I'd rather appreciate what I have."

Jane said nothing, and could nothing except listen onward.

"Jane, just thinking about what you did hurt me a great deal. And it still does. However…"

Eureka gently placed a hand on Jane, who shuddered in surprise. Was this girl, this child who had been disowned and beaten by the cruel world surrounding them actually offering an olive branch? How could she be so forgiving a soul, even after what Jane had tried to do?

"However, I still want you to be my friend," Eureka admitted firmly. "But unless you give up Renton, I'm afraid you never will be. You have to find your own happiness the right way, for both your sake and Renton's."

"I love him, Eureka," Jane said, clearly on the verge of tears. "Do you think it easy to give up someone you love?"

"Of course not. But part of loving someone means you know when to let go."

Jane only looked down at her shoes, lamenting lost romantic opportunities. For a moment, she could see just why Renton chose Eureka and not her. Not just her beauty or their shared history compelled him. Rather it was the kind forgiving soul that abided in her. Compared to that, Jane felt as dull as ditchwater. Was it a girl giving her this advice or an angel cursed to live in a cruel mortal world?

"I'm sure it must be difficult, but it's something you have to understand. If you think you're able to do as I've said, come back to me."

Eureka picked up her bags and stood up from the bench.

"I have to go. It's almost dinnertime and Renton will be waiting."

Before she could get any further, Jane grabbed at her wrist, and stopped her, calling to her with remorseful blue eyes.

"Eureka…I can't give you an answer now, but all I ask is that you take care of him for me. Please."

The Russian girl's lips curled into a sincere smile at the British teen. Perhaps there was some hope of redemption for her.

"Of course, I will, Jane. I made that promise to myself long ago."

Without another word, Jane released her and Eureka left for the Thurston residence. She sat alone on the bench for a long time, mulling over Eureka's words, and weighing in her head and in her heart just what she could do. And what it would cost her to give up Renton now. As she thought more and more about it, she realized that Renton was truly the first person she had felt love for in her life. She felt it strongly enough to almost force herself upon him. Unbridled passion had a tendency to breed negative consequences. Even if she let him go, it would mean the loss of a wondrous thing in her life, and a fractured friendship would be left in her wake. To lose him before she even had him would herald the loss of so much more. Would it be worth it in the end?

Love had a way of being complicated.

»»»»»

Chertov faced a long rap sheet to answer for. Not only was he charged with attempted murder, but conspiracy, incitement to riot, and aggravated assault. What concerned the militia, however, was what to do with him if they did manage to get a confession. Since he was an officer of the Red Army, and a Soviet citizen, it complicated the matter not only for themselves but for the nation as a whole. They were still at war. They still needed the Soviets, even if it was just a marriage of convenience. An international incident like this would very well break the fragile alliance. Nevertheless, the militia pursued an inquiry, if only to satisfy the questions raised by the public.

Two militiamen escorted the young blonde agent into the interrogation room, where only Denisov was waiting. They had taken extra precautions to avoid another incident like with Agent 909. Across the table stood a chair, much like any other, except it had wrought iron bonds on the legs and arms. She was shoved onto the chair and immediately shackled around her wrists and ankles. Denisov could only watch in apprehension, feeling the treatment was unnecessary; she _did _lead the militia right to Chertov. Not to say he didn't understand the apprehension; there was no telling what could happen now that Chertov and what remained of his task force of agents were caught.

340 did not struggle, nor did she protest in any manner. Oddly enough, she seemed to accept the hand fate had dealt her, knowing that it was over and she would likely face imprisonment if not execution. She only breathed slowly, and remained silent, awaiting questions from her interrogator. Denisov turned to one of the soldiers and gave him new orders.

"Private, start the recording."

"Yes, sir."

The militiaman strutted over to the wall where a reel-to-reel tape recorder hung, and pushed a red button, setting the tape in motion. Denisov formally and calmly stated the date and purpose for the recording.

"June 10th, 1943. 5:50 pm. Interrogation with co-conspirator in the Chertov-Thurston case."

The officer then looked up at 340 with solemn eyes.

"Please state your name for the record."

"I'm afraid I cannot give you my name."

Denisov's mustache twitched. He was determined not to have a repeat of what happened with 909. He weighed his options, wondering what would be the better course of action with this girl. He chose to play it safe.

"I need _something_ to identify you for our records."

"I can give you my codename. 340."

The officer scribbled it down on his notepad.

"Where were you born?"

"Rostov-on-Don, Soviet Union."

"What is your profession?"

A few moments of silence passed, as 340 considered her answer. Better to tell the whole truth than to be accused of obstructing justice.

"State Security officer."

"Where did you first learn about the mission to kill Renton Thurston? Was it from Chertov?"

340 hesitated for a moment. Bringing Chertov crashing down was hard enough, but to reveal the true nature of the mission was even more difficult. True, Chertov had his own motives driving him towards vengeance, but he still was acting on orders given from the Lieutenant Colonel. If she exposed the possibly more nefarious plan to them, it could spark a scandal that would strain the already tense relations between their nations. She considered the options, and measured their worth. In the end, however, she knew the truth could not be kept secret.

"No," she said with a hint of remorse. "It wasn't from him."

Denisov raised an eyebrow at the revelation. He had long assumed this case was the work of one madman who had recruited people for his purpose.

"Who told you, then?"

"It was a lieutenant colonel in Stalingrad. He gave me the orders to find and kill Renton Thurston. Chertov was not mentioned in my instructions."

"So you didn't know you'd be working with him?"

"No; I didn't learn until I reached Vladivostok. That's where I met him."

"Did the other agents receive their orders from the lieutenant colonel or just you?"

"They all did, each independently of each other. I was never informed that I'd be working with someone else."

The officer looked worriedly at the two soldiers in the room, who merely stood idle, itching for some activity. None expected the interrogation to go this smoothly. 340 was willing to divulge anything and everything, without ever being pressed or coerced. Did she take this job willingly or was she forced into it?

"Am I right in assuming, then, that Chertov received orders to kill Thurston from this lieutenant colonel as well?"

"It wouldn't surprise me if he did," 340 replied, shrugging her shoulders.

"Who else was recruited for this mission besides you?"

"Agent 271. 12. 578. 909. That's all."

"Is there anyone else you're working with?"

"Nobody."

That fact was recorded on Denisov's notepad silently, and he was left bewildered by how unresisting and honest this girl was. How was this not a ploy, part of some larger scheme he wasn't aware of. He had to know what, if anything, the agent was hiding.

"Why did you surrender so easily to us during the riot?"

"I was looking for a way out, and a way to turn Chertov in. I didn't want to be part of a scheme for revenge, especially if it meant killing a child."

"You could have backed out of the mission when that lieutenant colonel gave you your orders."

"I'm a servant of the State," 340 retorted, a soft glare in her blue eyes. "It's not in my job description to refuse a mission when it's given to me. Besides, even if I _did _want to back out, I doubt that man would've let me. When he briefed me, I thought for sure he would strike me on the head with a vodka bottle if I made one wrong comment."

The officer said nothing, and only wrote down her commentary in the notepad. Truly, this was a woman who was caught up in awful business. Either she didn't know what she was getting into, or did, and later regretted it.

"One other thing to ask: what about the Pachucos?"

"Who?"

"You know, the Zoot Suits."

"What _about_ them? They were just common street scum in it for the money."

"So they had no connection to the assassination attempts?"

"None. Chertov was only using them as a distraction so he could find and kill Thurston."

There was a brief pause, before 340 spoke again.

"My one consolation is that I defected in time to stop him."

"That won't be enough to absolve you of all the trouble you caused."

340's blue eyes narrowed, and she gave her last testament for her actions.

"You think I am _that_ naive? Every day and night I spent wrestling with my own conscience about the nature of this mission, what it would cost me, and what it would do not just to Thurston, but to his family, his country, and mine. The mission was given to me, and I backed out when I saw the true reasons behind it. I was played like a pawn for some kid's game of revenge. That's all my superior is underneath that uniform. Just a spoiled kid who wanted attention. If my penance for taking part in this is to live out my days behind iron bars, then so be it. At least I can say I refused to kill an innocent. And I am sure people will say that in times of war like these, innocence means nothing, but it means something to me."

Denisov sighed, not in frustration but in envy. This girl who hailed from a nation that had not long ago betrayed him and many others like him had the kindness and the decency to turn in a madman and to stop a brutal murder of a child. If people like her still existed in the old country, perhaps there was hope for change…maybe even a bright future without the murderous dictators, Party members and thugs who currently ran it. If she was a citizen of this country, he thought, he would induct her into the regiment right there on the spot. Instead, all he did was turn to the soldiers standing guard behind her.

"Corporal Weaver, release her and take her back to her cell. Private Pendleton, stop the recording. The interrogation is over."

The soldiers did as they were instructed, and took her back to the stockades out behind the militia office. Walking past the shooting ranges and the supply of munitions and weapons, 340 could only wonder what lay in wait for her and 271 after this.

12 and 578 were dead. 909 was missing; for all either she or 271 knew, she could be dead as well. Everything was shattered in the blink of an eye, and by her own design and planning too. What kind of fate could be dealt her way, and how would she live her life out afterwards? Her Soviet citizenship would certainly complicate matters of trial and sentencing, and the mere fact Soviets were behind this assassination would prove problematic for the alliance between their two countries. Then again, she thought, propaganda had a way of writing off incidents like this as the doings of the fifth column1. Either way, the potential outcomes were far from rosy.

She sighed resignedly as the stockade doors were opened and a soldier escorted her to her cell. It was not like she didn't see this coming; the very act of assassination would have caused an international incident on its own, and sparked such wild rumors. She had even heard rumblings that the communists were instigating the Zoot Suit Riots that was the subject of national attention. The one regret she had is she couldn't talk to the former target face to face.

If she had one moment, one chance, she would pour out her soul to him and explain why she did what she did, as if seeking redemption from a priest. She doubted, however, that such a moment would come. After what he had endured, it would not be surprising if he had retreated back to his home, wishing for this to slowly go away.

However as she reached her cell, she was surprised to find the very person she wished she could see, leaning against the stone walls. Renton Thurston.

"Here she is, Mr. Hero," the soldier remarking sarcastically. "Back from a thorough interrogation."

"How many times do I have to tell people to stop calling me that?" he said with irritation.

The soldier laughed it off as he pushed the young agent into her cell, as she saw for the first time, really for the first time, just who the boy that had been the focus of all this cloak-and-dagger business. It was serendipitous that the very person she had targeted had arrived here in the stockades, but for what reason? Why would he visit them?

Surely not to say something…to her?

With a clang of the iron door, and a locking of the key, they were left alone as 271 was taken out of her cell for questioning.

"Why have you come?" she asked simply.

The boy looked at her in slight confusion.

"Is it so uncommon to have visiting hours in your country?"

"It's not that. It's…well, I was part of the conspiracy to kill you. If I were you, I wouldn't want to see me, or anyone else."

"But you're not me. _I_ am me. And I wanted to ask you something."

340 calmly sat on the cot, looking up at the hero of which she had heard so much praise from her comrades and so much contempt from her officer. In truth, he was a normal-looking boy, dressed in ordinary street clothes. A plain white shirt with rolled up sleeves, loosely tucked into brown knickerbockers. White socks gave a hint of his innocence, coupled with his brown suspenders clipped onto the waist of his knickerbockers. His oak brown hair was unfettered and free, with a large thatch hanging in-between his sharp, piercing green eyes. 340 was right; he was an innocent child in all of this, who had done nothing to deserve such hatred.

"One of the soldiers told me you helped them. You betrayed your own officer to spare me."

"It's true," she replied matter-of-factly. "I did betray him. I gave the militia everything I knew. And they used it to catch him when they did."

"But why did you? Surely you knew the risk you were running. Chertov could have killed you at any moment, just as he almost did me. Not long ago, you were serving under him. What changed?"

340 rested her head against the brick and mortar of her cell, and pondered the question herself with a heavy sigh. Were it not for luck and a bit of cunning on her part, she would certainly be dead a thousand times over. Had she spoken her mind at the first opportunity, had she said what she truly felt, Chertov would have undoubtedly killed her on the spot. Up until the last moment, she wavered and waffled, wondering what would be gained from this vengeful escapade. But in the end, she knew why she did it. It was to preserve something. Something that, in times of war, was all too often forgotten or cast aside in favor of gaining a temporal, vain victory.

"I learned why Chertov wanted you dead. I knew what you had done. And I decided that yours was not the existence that should die."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that in times of war, some things are forgotten. Some men lose sight of what is important. I almost did when I took on this mission, without even knowing why I had to kill you. But when I remembered, I immediately felt remorse, and a desperate want to make amends. Call it selfish, but I just didn't want to have the blood of an innocent on my hands. I could not go back home and carry out my duties with that knowledge on my conscience."

There was a brief pause, and she instinctively felt Renton was about to say something, perhaps to protest the sincerity of her claim.

"Killing people was once my business. But…I've grown tired with dispensing death, and when I received my mission to kill an innocent, I drew the line. I didn't know I had drawn it, but I did. There is no illusion in my mind that I will be exonerated for the things I've done, and have tried to do. In fact, I suspect I will be executed for my crimes…or perhaps live out my days here in this cell. But if that is the atonement for my crimes, I accept it."

She fully expected Renton to simply walk out and leave her there to contemplate her words, but instead, he stayed. And said two words that spoke volumes.

"Thank you."

The agent turned her eyes to him in a shock. Even in the wake of all the torture, all the agony wrought upon him by her, Chertov, and others, he still had the heart to forgive? Anyone else would have just left her, and be content to never hear or speak of the incident again. And yet he heard her testimony, and found her deserving of acquittal. Perhaps it was that, and not all the Germans he killed fighting in Stalingrad that made him noble. His willingness to forgive even the most heinous of transgressions.

"Even if you do live out your days here as a prisoner, I want you to know I appreciate what you've done. I very well owe you my life. For that, I thank you. Before I go, I have one last thing to ask."

"And that would be?"

"I must know your name."

She paused, and considered just what she would lose or gain by giving her that one mark of her identity she had traded in for this life of hers. The life of an NKVD officer meant she was bound to the State and to the Party. All other things were secondary, even herself. She had to give up her family, her old friends, and even her name. It was consigned to the ashbin of history and replaced with a mere, arbitrary number. She still hung onto it in the deepest recesses of her mind, however. And who better a person to know who she truly was beneath the guise of a foreign agent than the target who offered her forgiveness. She smiled and quietly rose from her cell, leaning on the iron bars before softly saying,

"Very well. I'll tell you, and no one else. You deserve to know it more than anyone."

Renton folded his hands behind him, and blinked, patiently awaiting herself to be revealed.

"Before I took my number, and when I was younger…I was called Nadia. Nadia Shevtsova."

To hear the syllables of that old moniker roll off her tongue like waves onto the shore was almost embarrassing for her, so much that she blushed a light shade of pink. It almost felt like she was revealing a great secret, one intended for a husband or a brother, rather than the former target she had not long ago been assigned to kill. But she would rather he hear it than anyone else. She'd be damned if Chertov heard it. 12 and 578 never would know now. Even 271, for all the help she provided, could not hear it as protocol forbade it. Then again, now that she was a prisoner, and most likely not going back to the life of an officer, what did protocol matter?

Renton smiled, and leaned in closer.

"It's a beautiful name. You should never have given it away. Our names are all we have when we've lost everything else."

"Starting to agree with you, there."

Her heartbeat increased until it felt like it was about to burst out of her chest. It was insane to even contemplate, considering how she was a prisoner and with any luck (or lack thereof), she'd be destined for the gallows. Yet she could not help but feel like a great weight had been lifted, and she was closer to this boy in front of her than before.

"I'll never forget what you did for me, Nadia. Thank you…and goodbye."

"Farewell, American Russian."

Renton sighed and laughed resignedly at that title as he walked away.

"I'm getting really tired of being called that…"

"You've made a name for yourself, Renton Thurston," she called after him jokingly. "Embrace it. After all, names are all we have when we've lost everything else."

The boy departed with one last knowing wry smile before the iron doors shut behind him with a clang, leaving her alone in the cell. She fell back onto her cot, with a light feeling. To receive exoneration in the eyes of the law was a practical impossibility. If she died, she would die comfortable in knowing that one person knew her true reasons, and the real name she carried once. A name she never should have thrown away.

»»»»»

**June 11****th****, 1943**

In contrast to Nadia and 271, Chertov was unbelievably difficult with interrogations. He would thrash about, make violent and sometimes incoherent threats to his interrogators. It was always a good thing he was tied to the chair with the iron bonds. Two soldiers always had to stand guard next to him if he grew belligerent. To any outside observer, the young disgraced officer had clearly lost his mind. To Renton and others who knew him well, it was just who he had always been.

The lieutenant was dragged into the interrogation room, but this time, he was oddly quiet. All anyone could hear was his huffed angered breathing through his teeth, like a tea kettle whistling from boiling hot water. The soldiers never looked him in the eyes or spoke a single word to him; it was not by any orders but rather out of fear that the slightest thing would set him off. A cornered enemy always fought hardest, and they were not about to let them get away after all the trouble he put them through.

He didn't even struggle as the soldiers pushed him into the chair and tightened his iron bonds. All he could do was hang his head down, looking the very picture of a conquered enemy. His uniform was dirty and torn in several places, upright collar unbuttoned revealing his clean white shirt. The shoulder boards indicating his rank clung to his tunic by strayed threads, stained with dust and grime. The hair was unkempt and hung in his face, obscuring his decadent chocolate eyes from view of Denisov as he took a seat on the opposite side of the table. Instinctively, one of the soldiers went to the wall to start the recording, while the other presided over Chertov, the muzzle of his rifle aimed straight at the young man's heart. Nadia may have been compliant, but Chertov was a different beast altogether.

With a push of the button, Denisov spoke first, stating the date and time.

"June 11th, 1943. 11:30am. Interrogation of chief suspect in the Chertov-Thurston case."

With a turn of the head, he addressed the young officer.

"State your name and rank."

Chertov laughed derisively.

"You know my name. Why ask it?"

"We need you to state it for the record. Now what is your name?"

"YOU KNOW MY NAME!" he screeched. "GET ON WITH IT!"

At that, a soldier bucked him in the shoulder with the butt of his rifle, as a way to curtail his anger. Chertov winced, and received a reprimand from Denisov.

"I can do this all day unless you cooperate. Now again, what is your name."

"Go fuck yourself!"

The pain was doubled, as now both soldiers bludgeoned him in the shoulders, and then again in both temples. The lieutenant groaned in pain, but Denisov didn't show any signs of sympathy; if this is what it took to get the facts of the case, so be it. Blood ran down Chertov's face as he huffed and panted, and Denisov's mustache twitched.

"Next time it'll be worse. Now. Tell. Me. Your. Name!"

A few moments of silence yielded relenting from Chertov. Everything was gone in his mind. The agents were gone, the plan was in ruins, and if he had any luck, all that awaited him was a hangman's noose. He had nothing left he could lose.

"Chertov," he breathed quietly. "Ilya Pavlovich. Junior Lieutenant, 267th Guards Infantry."

"That's better," Denisov replied as he scribbled the information down. "Where and when were you born?"

"Stalingrad. 23rd of September, 1925."

"What brought you here to kill Renton Thurston?"

Just when Denisov thought he was getting somewhere, Chertov lapsed back into his mocking, bombastic posture. He laughed as he looked up to the ceiling, and bore his stained teeth. For all his threats and thrashings, it was a facade. He had nothing, and all the militia knew it. All they witnessed was the slipping away of sanity from a spoiled brat and a common bully. Chertov hissed out his answer in a wave contempt.

"You mean you morons haven't figured it out yet? I knew you Keystone Cops were slow, but not _this _slow. I came for Renton Thurston! I came to seek revenge! Is that so bloody hard to understand!?"

"Do you hate Thurston?"

"Hate does not begin to cover what I feel for him!" Chertov howled. "I loathe him…I despise him…I detest the very sight of him!"

His head flopped down, again obscuring his decadent, hungry eyes.

"I will make him suffer for this," he hissed.

"You're not in any position to make a threat like that, kid. Until we figure out what to do with you, you're not getting anywhere near him. Now, next question: did you come for any other reason except revenge?"

"What more reason do I need than that?"

"Perhaps…someone _ordered_ you to?"

A bead of sweat formed on the officer's brow, and he wondered just what Denisov was after. How could he know of any of that? Regardless, he had to keep the identity of his officer a secret, lest he expose something far more threatening than just an assassination mission.

"No. I came of my own volition."

"Then what about 340 and 271 and the others? What about the Zoot Suits?"

"The agents came with me because I offered to pay them. I was never involved with the Zoot Suits until the last moment."

Denisov raised an eyebrow in apprehension, and Chertov knew in an instant that he was caught in a lie. The officer pressed him further.

"That's not what _we _know."

"What _do _you know?"

"I'M asking the questions, here! Now, tell us the name of your officer."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're lying, Chertov. You came under orders to kill Thurston; we _know_ you did."

"YOU KNOW NOTHING!" Chertov spat. "Even if I _did _come under orders, it's not what drove me. I came to get my revenge, and nothing else! That alone motivated me more than any officer barking orders at me!"

Before Denisov could say anything more, and possibly pursue this lead, he heard a knock on the interrogation room door. He directed one soldier to stop the recording for now, as this interrogation would be resumed at a later date. As he left to see who was outside the door, Chertov had to be held back at gunpoint as he struggled with his bonds. One of the soldiers greatly feared he would break out of his shackles at any moment, he thrashed about so violently. But when the door was opened, Chertov suddenly went near comatose at who stepped into the room.

It was a young boy of 17 with oak brown hair and sharp green eyes, dressed in casual street clothes. His bane. His torment. His nemesis. His vengeful raison d'être.

"Blyad' suka syn2!"

"I take time out of my day to pay you a visit and _that's_ how you greet me?" he noted sardonically.

Chertov slumped in his seat with a huff, as a spoiled child would in preparation for a lecture by his parents. Renton had one last conversation with Denisov before he closed the door.

"Make it quick, Thurston. Five minutes, tops."

"For what I am about to say, I don't need five minutes."

Satisfied, Denisov closed the door, leaving only Chertov, two soldiers, and the one boy that caused him so much ire.

"Is this some new brand of state-sanctioned torture?" Chertov remarked callously. "To bring my target of assassination in to mock me?"

"So quick to assume," Renton lamented. "No, I came because I wanted to tell you something. It's about what happened that day when you were arrested."

"What is there to say? You won and I lost. It's pretty cut and dry to me."

"I didn't come to gloat, Chertov. I'm here to tell you the truth about that fight between you and me."

Chertov raised his head and an eyebrow in confusion, wondering just what Renton was talking about. It seemed clear to him what happened; he was witness and party to it. They had fought each other to a virtual standstill, and in doing so, Renton bought enough time for him to be caught by the militia. In retrospect, he should have seen it coming, but he still could not believe how fiercely and determinately Renton fought. It was like facing a madman, so uncharacteristic of the soft-spoken, calm boy before him.

"I let you live," Renton said finitely.

The prisoner's decadent chocolate brown eyes widened in shock at that. Was he admitting to feeling compassion during that battle in Sacramento, when he fought with the ferocity of a rabid dog?

"I could have killed you if I wanted," he admitted, composed with a hint of animosity. "And part of me really did. But I chose to spare you. Perhaps I'm a fool for doing that. Call it what you want. Sentimentalism, naïveté, an idealistic hope for nonviolence. Whatever you say, however you try to spin it, I made my choice about you long before you and I clashed in that factory. Maybe it's provided a way for you to plot and scheme ways to torment me and Eureka and her family again, but either way…I let you live. You can't hurt me or anyone else anymore because I spared you that day. I've broken your hold over me."

With that, Renton turned on his heel and walked away, with nothing more to divulge to his defeated, humiliated rival. He thought that knowledge, that ounce of compassion to one's foe, would sink in and perhaps make Chertov take stock of all his failings and assess just what damage he had caused. Sadly, as he made his way for the door, Chertov issued his reply.

"As long as you live, Thurston, I will not give up. If what you are saying is true, then you made the biggest mistake of your life. This war won't stop until one of us has destroyed the other. This _will_ end in blood, Thurston. Yours or mine."

Renton sighed, perhaps expecting a stubborn response from him. From the day they met to now, Chertov had always been a firebrand. A bully. A bitter, hate-filled and vengeful character who saw conspirators and enemies all around him. Whether it was intrinsically in his nature or the war that changed him, he could not say. Regardless, Renton turned to him one last time, standing in the threshold of the doorway, and was determined not to let his rival have the last word.

"I thought you would say that. Some things never change, no matter how many years go by. It never ends any way else with you, does it? It _always_ ends in blood."

He stepped out of the door, which closed behind him with a clang. Rather than being released from his bonds and returned to his cell, as Chertov expected, he sat there, shackled like a common criminal. The chains of rage always held him back, keeping him bound to his old vendettas and hatreds. He didn't struggle or make any attempt to break free. Instead, he just sat quietly, waiting for something.

Waiting to die.

Waiting to live.

Waiting for a second chance at revenge he knew would never come.

1 Fifth Column: an individual or group of individuals who undermine a larger group, such as a nation at war or a besieged city, from within. They can do this by clandestine or overt action. During World War II, the "fifth column" was a subject of nationwide and worldwide paranoia for betrayal to the Axis from within, and became shorthand for sedition and disloyalty.

2 Fucking son of a bitch!


End file.
